Chapter 1

Chapter One

A va

The relentless hum of the newsroom wrapped around me like a second skin, the staccato of keyboards and the intermittent rings of phones creating a symphony of deadlines. I was right in the thick of it, perched at my cluttered desk, my fingers racing across the keyboard of my laptop. The screen glowed with the harsh light of a damning expose I'd been cultivating for weeks, one that would surely ruffle some prestigious feathers.

"Nice piece on the mayor, Ava," Sara chimed as she leaned over my desk, her voice slicing through my concentration like a knife. Her praise was expected, but today it was merely background noise. I managed a half-smile without glancing up, my gaze cemented to the digital words shaping beneath my hands.

"Thanks, Sara. Just wrapping up the follow-up." My response was automatic, my mind elsewhere, navigating through the maze of corruption I was about to expose.

Before Sara could further the small talk, the sharp, authoritative call of my name across the room sliced through the clamor. "Parker, my office. Now."

Mark's voice, gravelly and imbued with an urgency that wasn't to be ignored, had me snapping my laptop shut. I scooted my chair back and stood, smoothing the front of my blazer more out of habit than necessity. As I made my way to his office, I could feel the curious gazes of my colleagues boring into my back, their whispers already knitting together theories and rumors.

Mark's office was a testament to journalistic victories, the walls a montage of framed front pages, each story a battlefield. He stood by the door, his stance wide, his expression unreadable. The moment I stepped in, he shut the door with a decisive thud that hinted at the gravity of the conversation ahead.

"Sit," he commanded, pointing to the chair across from his cluttered desk. I obeyed, my heartbeat ticking up a notch. Mark wasn't a man of pleasantries, and every second in his office was a second spent on the frontline.

"I have something different for you," he began, his eyes pinning me with a seriousness that tightened my stomach. He reached for a thick file on his desk, its contents stuffed to the brim with newspaper clippings, police reports, and what I assumed were witness statements.

"Dante Marcellus and his traveling circus, The Misfit Cabaret," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as if the mere mention of the name might draw unwanted attention. "There are whispers, Parker. Illicit activities, disappearances... the works. It's your job to dig up the truth."

I reached for the file, my fingers brushing against the cool paper. Flipping it open, I scanned the contents, each clip, each report searing images of shadowed tents and veiled secrets into my mind.

"Disappearances?" I asked, my voice steady despite the flicker of adrenaline that danced through my veins.

Mark nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. "People go in, not all come out. And those who do, well, they aren't keen on talking. There's something dark circling that circus, Ava. I need you to infiltrate, investigate, and expose."

Infiltrate. The word echoed in my mind, a challenge that was both thrilling and daunting. This was no ordinary assignment; it was an expedition into a world shrouded in spectacle and shadow. My pulse quickened at the thought, the rush of the chase, the hunger for truth making my decision for me.

"I'll get to the bottom of this," I said, the words firm and filled with the resolve that had earned me my place in this newsroom. "I'll uncover whatever Marcellus is hiding."

Mark's lips twitched into what could almost pass for a smile. "I know you will, Parker. Keep your wits about you. This circus... it's not like anything you've tackled before."

As I left his office, the file under my arm felt like a torch—both a beacon and a weapon. I was about to step into the ring of a circus that played by its own rules, where every act was a question, and every performer potentially an answer. The story was there, waiting in the wings, shrouded in the allure of the unknown, and I was ready to drag it into the spotlight. The newsroom hummed with activity, the cacophony of ringing phones and fervent conversations forming a discordant backdrop to my newfound mission. My desk was a mere pit stop; I grabbed my notepad and phone, the tools of my trade, with a resolve that hardened with every step. The prospect of diving into a world shrouded in mystery quickened my pulse, fueling me with a potent mix of dread and excitement.

I walked a few blocks down the street in the direction of the sprawling library, an edifice that promised answers hidden in its silent walls. I approached the grand building, its facade a testament to the countless stories it harbored. Pushing open the heavy doors, the cool, musty air of the library enveloped me, my heels clicking on the marble floor in a steady, determined rhythm. The archives section awaited, a labyrinth of Chicago's history and secrets.

Inside, the musty smell of old paper and the quiet whispers of patrons leafing through pages created a sanctuary for readers and researchers like myself. I made a beeline for the microfilm machines and the towering shelves of archived newspapers, my eyes scanning for any mention of Dante Marcellus and his enigmatic Misfit Cabaret circus. The microfilm reels turned slowly, images of old newspaper articles flickering into view, their headlines speaking of towns once visited by the circus and the strange occurrences that followed. Notes piled up as I connected dates and incidents, the faces of the missing staring back at me from aged paper, their eyes haunting, urging me to dig deeper. Every article, every whispered rumor in the archives pieced together a pattern, a trail that hinted at something far darker than a simple sleight of hand.

Hours later, back in the quiet solitude of my apartment, my dining table transformed into a command center. Newspaper clippings, photographs, and hastily scribbled notes spread out before me, a tapestry of intrigue and whispers. I pinned each piece to the corkboard with a meticulousness born of obsession, the lines connecting dots across towns and years. The visual map of the circus's movements juxtaposed with the faces of those who vanished created a chilling narrative that sent shivers down my spine. I stood back, the weight of what I was uncovering settling in my chest like a stone. The thrill of the chase, the hunt for truth, was intoxicating, but the shadows lurking behind the circus's glittering facade were oppressive, a reminder of the danger woven through the glitz.

With the map as my guide, I drafted a list of names—people who had once been part of the circus's nomadic life, police officers who had brushed off the disappearances as coincidences, and families torn apart by loss. Each name was a potential key to unlocking the circus's secrets. My phone buzzed relentlessly on the table, a stark contrast to the silence of my focused endeavor. Friends, life, the world outside my investigation clamored for attention, but I couldn't afford distractions. Not now, not with the stakes so high. Determined, I turned off my phone, the silence sealing my commitment. The night stretched out before me, filled with promise and peril. I knew that delving deeper into this mystery could unravel my life, leave it as fragmented as the stories scattered across my table. Yet, the truth beckoned with a siren's call, irresistible and dangerous. Each note, each photo was now part of a larger story—a story of hidden darkness beneath the colorful tents and twinkling lights of the circus. A story I was determined to tell, no matter the cost. Finally, I found the name of a local retired cop affiliated with one of the missing person cases. Within minutes I had him on the phone and he was more than willing to talk to me.

An hour later the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as I pushed open the door to the local coffee shop, the bell chiming softly above me. The cozy interior was a welcome refuge from the brisk evening air. I spotted Joe, the retired police officer I was scheduled to meet, sitting in a corner booth, his attention fixed on a newspaper.

"Joe?" I approached, extending my hand.

He looked up, his gaze sharpening as he took in my outstretched hand. "Ava, right? Sit down," he grumbled, folding the newspaper with a practiced flick of his wrist.

I slid into the booth, my recorder and notepad at the ready. Joe's reputation preceded him; a tough, no-nonsense cop who had seen more than his fair share of dark days before hanging up his badge.

"I appreciate you meeting me, Joe. I understand you were involved in investigating some of the disappearances linked to the circus?" I began, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

Joe nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah, those cases... they never sat right with me. Too many questions, not enough answers. And all roads led back to Dante Marcellus and his traveling show."

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a worn photograph which he slid across the table to me. The edges were frayed, the image slightly faded, but the man in the picture was unmistakably charismatic, his eyes piercing even in black and white. Dante Marcellus looked like a man who knew secrets—dark, dangerous secrets.

"Keep that," Joe said gruffly. "Might help you recognize him when you see him. Just be careful, Ava. That man... he's not what he seems."

I tucked the photograph into my notebook, my mind racing with the implications of Joe's words. After a few more probing questions about the specifics of the disappearances, I left the coffee shop with a heavy heart and a mind teeming with dread and determination. My next stop? The train station and the current location of Dante Marcellus' Misfit Cabaret.

The train station was bustling with activity when I arrived later that night, suitcase in tow. The sharp tang of diesel mingled with the sounds of announcements and hurried farewells. Purchasing my ticket, I made my way to the platform, the weight of the impending journey settling over me like a thick cloak. As I boarded the train, finding a window seat, the reality of my quest sank in. I was on my way to infiltrate a circus that might be harboring a criminal mastermind. The whistle blew, a mournful sound that seemed to echo my turbulent emotions. The train lurched forward, and I settled back, pulling out my notepad. I reviewed my notes, the photograph of Dante staring back at me from the page. His enigmatic gaze seemed to challenge me, taunting me with the secrets he held. Night fell as the train sliced through the dark landscape deep into rural farmland, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels a constant reminder of my isolation. My eyes grew heavy, and I drifted into a fitful sleep, my dreams a swirling mix of circus tents and shadowy figures, with Dante always at the center, an elusive puppet master.

Dawn was breaking when I awoke, the train slowing as it approached my stop. I gathered my belongings, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation. Stepping off the train, I was greeted by the sight of the circus sprawled out before me. Colorful tents stood proudly against the backdrop of the sleepy town, the air filled with the distant sounds of animals and performers beginning their day.

Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for what was to come. This was it—the beginning of my dive into the heart of darkness. I walked toward the circus, each step taking me closer to the truth I was determined to uncover, no matter the cost.