CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Finn's head snapped up at the sound of Sheila's shout. "Stop! Police!" Her voice echoed through the cavernous theater, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Sheila?" he called out, but only his own voice bounced back to him.

He started running, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of the lobby. The grand space quickly gave way to a labyrinth of narrow corridors backstage. Finn found himself in a maze of twisting passageways, each turn leading to more options. Props and costume racks lined the walls, creating strange shadows in the dim emergency lighting.

A life-sized mannequin loomed suddenly in front of him, its blank face startling in the gloom. Finn dodged around it, his heart pounding. The air was thick with the musty smell of old fabric and dust.

He paused at an intersection, straining his ears. Was that a footstep? A door closing? The building seemed to swallow sounds, making it impossible to pinpoint their origin.

"Sheila!" he called again, but there was no response.

Finn chose a corridor at random, picking up his pace. He passed dressing rooms, their doors ajar, mirrors reflecting slivers of the hallway and creating disorienting flashes of movement in his peripheral vision.

A crash from somewhere above made him skid to a stop. Finn looked up, trying to orient himself. The ceiling here was low, but he could see catwalks crisscrossing the space above the stage area.

Another sound—definitely footsteps this time—echoed from above. Finn's eyes darted around, searching for access to the upper levels. He spotted a metal ladder attached to the wall, partially hidden behind a rack of elaborate Victorian-era dresses.

Without hesitation, he began to climb. The metal was cold under his hands, and the ladder swayed slightly with his weight. As he neared the top, the sounds above grew louder. Whoever was up there wasn't trying to be quiet anymore.

Finn emerged onto a narrow catwalk. The stage stretched out below him, a dizzying drop that he tried not to think about. The catwalks formed a complex web above the stage, disappearing into the shadows.

He moved cautiously, the metal grating beneath his feet creaking softly. The footsteps were closer now, just around the corner of a large set piece suspended from the rigging.

Finn pressed himself against the wall and listened. The footsteps grew louder, more hurried. Just as the figure came around the corner, Finn launched himself forward.

They went down in a tangle of limbs, Finn using his momentum to pin the man to the catwalk. The grating rattled ominously beneath them.

"Don't move!" Finn said, struggling to keep the man pinned. "You're under arrest!"

The man beneath him wheezed, the wind knocked out of him by the fall. "What the hell?" he gasped. "Get off me!"

Finn tightened his grip. "Sheila!" he called out. "I've got him! Up here on the catwalk!"

He heard movement below, then Sheila's voice. "Finn? Where are you?"

"Above the stage!" Finn replied, still struggling with his captive.

There was a pause, then the sound of a door opening. Sheila stepped out onto the stage below, her face upturned and clearly visible in the work lights. She was breathing heavily, hands on her hips.

"Finn," she called up, her voice a mix of confusion and frustration, "the suspect got away. I lost him in the back alley. He had a bike parked there—took off before I could catch up."

Finn froze, the implications of her words sinking in. He looked down at the man he was restraining, really seeing him for the first time. The man glared back, his face red with exertion and anger.

If this wasn't the guy Sheila had been chasing, then who was he?

***

Finn's heart was still racing as he sat across from the man he'd tackled, now identified as Marcus Holloway. They were in one of the theater's dressing rooms, its walls lined with mirrors and bright lights. The juxtaposition of the glamorous space and the tense atmosphere wasn't lost on Finn.

Holloway, a man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and an actor's resonant voice, leaned forward in his chair. "Look, I understand you were just doing your job, but was it really necessary to tackle me like that?"

Finn exchanged a glance with Sheila before responding. "We apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Holloway. We're investigating a serious crime, and when I heard someone running above me—"

"You assumed the worst," Holloway said, rubbing his shoulder where he'd hit the catwalk. "I get it. But I'd appreciate an explanation. What exactly is going on in my theater?"

Sheila took the lead. "That's what we're trying to figure out, Mr. Holloway. Can you tell us what you were doing here so late?"

Holloway sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I was working late, as I often do. We're in the middle of renovations for our upcoming season. I was up in the flies, checking on some new rigging we've installed."

"Renovations?" Finn asked, curious. "What kind of renovations?"

"Oh, a bit of everything," Holloway replied. "We're updating the lighting system, reinforcing some of the older structures, and revamping some of the unused areas. This old place has a lot of hidden nooks and crannies that haven't seen use in decades."

Finn made a mental note of this.

"And you were alone?" Sheila asked.

Holloway nodded. "Yes, I often work late by myself. It's peaceful, gives me time to think and plan without interruptions." He paused, frowning. "At least, I thought I was alone. When I heard the commotion, I was trying to figure out what was going on. That's why I was running."

"Did you see anyone else?" Finn asked. "A man, perhaps? Medium build, dark clothes?"

Holloway shook his head. "No, I didn't see anyone. Should I have?"

Finn and Sheila shared another look. Sheila nodded slightly, and Finn turned back to Holloway.

Mr. Holloway," Finn said, leaning forward, his expression grave, "we have reason to believe that someone involved with your theater may be the Coldwater Confessor. We need information on all the actors and anyone else who has access to the theater."

Holloway's face paled, his eyes widening in shock. "The Coldwater Confessor? Here? But that's...that's impossible. I know everyone who works here. They're like family."

"We understand this is difficult to hear, Mr. Holloway," Sheila said, "but we need your cooperation. Any information you can provide could be crucial to our investigation."

Holloway nodded slowly, still visibly shaken. "Of course, of course. I'll get you everything we have—employee records, schedules, access logs. Anything you need."

Just as Finn was about to respond, Sheila's phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. She pulled it out, frowning at the screen. "Excuse me, I need to take this," she said, stepping away from the group.

"Stone," she answered, his voice low.

As she listened, her expression darkened. Finn watched her intently, recognizing the shift in her demeanor. She was on the phone for only a few moments. Then she ended the call and turned back to them, her face grim.

"We have to go," she said to Finn, then addressed Holloway. "Mr. Holloway, we'll be in touch about those records. Please don't discuss this conversation with anyone for now."

Holloway nodded numbly as Finn and Sheila made their way to the door. Once outside, Finn turned to Sheila, puzzled.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Sheila's jaw was set, her voice tight as she spoke. "Another body, that's what."