Page 40 of Once Broken
The staircase was dimly lit by a single bulb, the steps worn in their centers from years of use.Crystal climbed slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.The mechanical sound of the still-running projector grew louder with each step, a steady rhythm like the heartbeat of the theater itself.
At the top of the stairs, another door stood partly open, spilling light into the stairwell.Crystal paused, listening.No movement, no voice—only the whir of the projector.
“Ted?”she called, rapping her knuckles against the door.“It’s Crystal.The film’s caught in the gate.”
Silence.
She pushed the door wider and stepped into the projection booth.Two massive projectors dominated the small space, their complicated mechanisms gleaming under the overhead lights.One was dark and silent, while the other—the one projecting the stark white light onto the screen below—continued to run, its reels spinning steadily despite the absence of film passing through the gate.
Ted Coonfield was nowhere to be seen.
Crystal moved deeper into the booth, her unease growing with each step.Obviously Ted had been here, otherwise the showing wouldn’t have started.And yet he had vanished without addressing the film problem—behavior entirely at odds with his reputation for professionalism.
A strange sensation prickled along Crystal’s spine—recognition not of a place but of a scenario.Something about this moment felt familiar in a way that had nothing to do with her previous visits to projection booths.
Then it struck her with chilling clarity.The Broken Window.The 1954 film noir directed by Weston Black.In its most notorious scene, a female film critic is murdered in a projection booth, her body then chained to the projector as a macabre statement about the relationship between critic and art.
Crystal had written about that scene in her book, analyzing its visual composition and thematic resonance.Now she stood in an eerily similar setting—alone in a projection booth with no sign of the projectionist who should be there.
The parallel was too precise to be coincidental.
Her heart rate accelerated as adrenaline flooded her system.She needed to get out of here.If someone had deliberately recreated this scenario, if Ted’s absence was not an accident but a design...
She never completed the thought.As she turned and reached for the door handle, a dark shape lunged from behind a storage cabinet—moving with terrible purpose.Crystal caught only a glimpse of a face contorted with hatred before strong hands seized her from behind.
Something thin and flexible looped around her neck.It tightened with vicious speed, cutting off her airway and digging into the soft flesh of her throat.
Crystal clawed at the garrote, her fingernails scraping uselessly against her attacker’s gloved hands.She tried to scream, but only a strangled whimper escaped her constricted throat.
The pressure increased.Dark spots swam before her eyes as oxygen deprivation set in.Her struggling weakened, her body betraying her as consciousness began to slip away.
In her final moments of awareness, as the projection booth dimmed around her, Crystal Keene experienced a film critic’s last irony—dying exactly as described in a scene she had analyzed dozens of times.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The phone’s shrill ring dragged Riley from the depths of sleep.She surfaced reluctantly, fragments of troubled dreams dissolving as awareness returned—vague impressions of April in danger mixing with Atlanta’s darkened streets.The digital clock beside the bed read 5:07 AM.
Nothing good ever came from calls before sunrise.
She fumbled for her phone on the unfamiliar nightstand.When she found the vibrating device, the screen’s harsh blue glow cut through the pre-dawn darkness.The call was from Detective Hayes.
“Paige,” she answered, her voice thick with interrupted sleep.
“There’s been another murder.”Hayes’ words tumbled out in a rush, his tone urgent and raw.“At The Velvet Screen Theater.”
Riley sat upright, sleep evaporating.Another murder.Just as she and Ann Marie had predicted.
“Crystal Keene,” Hayes continued before she could respond.“The film critic.Found chained to a projector in the booth.Strangled.”
Riley swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet connecting with the hotel room’s carpeting.“When?”
“Sometime last night.Projectionist found her about an hour ago.Says he was knocked unconscious yesterday evening and woke up bound in a closet.When he managed to free himself she was beyond any help.”Hayes paused, and Riley heard what it cost him to say the next words.“You were right.About there being more victims.About this being connected to Hollywood history.”
Riley didn’t allow herself even a moment of satisfaction at the vindication.Being right meant someone else was dead.“The scene—it was deliberately staged?”
“Like something out of a goddamn movie,” Hayes confirmed.“The projectionist recognized it immediately.From some old film noir calledThe Broken Window.”
“I know it,” Riley said, moving toward the bathroom, phone pressed against her ear.She flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness.“A film critic is murdered in a projection booth and chained to the projector.”
