Hannah's Beau. Renee Ryan

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      Her words came out flat, hard and—unfortunately for them all—fell on unhearing ears.

      “Stay away from that gorgeous, stunning creature? You demand the impossible, Hannah darling,” Tyler said. “Rachel’s smiles slay me, and her voice is sweeter than any angel’s.”

      Clearly oblivious to the tension growing between their two leads, the other actors continued scrambling into place.

      “Don’t, Tyler.” Pressure built in Hannah’s chest, stealing her breath and drying out her throat. “Just…don’t.”

      “Why, my dear girl, you sound quite discouraging. One might start to think you disapprove.”

      A familiar, albeit unwanted, affection broke past Hannah’s annoyance. Tyler had the kind of droll humor that reared at the most inappropriate of times and invariably took the sting out of an uncomfortable situation. It was hard to dislike a man who was as fully aware of his faults as his talents. Even if he used both to his full advantage whenever the occasion suited him.

      Well, tonight, where too many lives might be harmed, Hannah could not—would not—allow a budding flirtation to turn into something more destructive. “Tyler, you must listen and take heed. She’s—”

      A groan from the rigging stopped Hannah in midsentence and had both Tyler and her turning toward the curtain to fulfill their final duty of the night.

      Conversation among the rest of the cast halted, as well.

      A few more seconds of rope grinding to metal and the curtain began to rise. The audience leaned forward, eager to get a better look at the actors. With every inch of the curtain’s ascent, their palms pounded wildly together, again and again and again. Louder and louder and louder.

      Hannah slid a glance at Tyler. With a sly grin lifting the corners of his lips, he reached out and twined his fingers through hers. Together they raised their joined hands in the air then bent into a well-rehearsed bow.

      Rising first, Hannah shot a quick slash of teeth at Tyler, and then leaned forward again. They repeated the process until the applause died to a mere spattering.

      As the curtain made its final descent on the Chicago production of Shakespeare’s delicious comedy, Hannah feared a tragedy far worse than any fictional tale was already in the making.

      With another warning perched on her lips, Hannah turned to Tyler, but she only caught the wild flourish of coattails as he spun in the direction where Rachel stood.

      “Tyler, wait. She’s—”

      He dismissed her with a careless flick of his wrist.

      Hannah lifted onto her toes to see past the other actors. “Rachel,” she called out. “You can’t. You’re—”

      But her sister shifted to her left, literally turning her deaf ear in Hannah’s direction. It was an old trick of Rachel’s, a hard kick aimed straight at Hannah’s guilt, an open defiance that did not bode well for a reasonable end to the escalating situation.

      Nevertheless, Hannah set out after Rachel and Tyler. The two quickly disappeared behind a side curtain. The backstage area was already filled with commotion, making it difficult for Hannah to see precisely which direction they had taken.

      After several long minutes of searching, Hannah thought she saw two shadowy figures leave the building, but prayed her riotous imagination had taken over her logic.

      There was one dreadful hope left.

      Shifting direction, Hannah turned toward Tyler’s dressing room. She’d only taken two steps when one of the crew materialized in her path. “Hannah, your sister told me to give you this after tonight’s production.”

      He pressed a piece of paper against her palm, then turned back to assist the stage manager in breaking down the set.

      Hannah squinted toward the backstage door then looked down at the small, folded parchment in her hand. A foreboding filled her, and a hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

      She unfolded the note with trembling fingers. Her sister’s looping script flowed through a single sentence.

      Be happy for us.

      “Oh, please, please, not again.”

      Chapter Two

      Denver, Colorado

       Three days later

      Harsh, irregular breaths wafted through the tiny room. The acrid smell of death filled the air. Both occupants sat wrapped in their own state of despair, each struggling for answers to unbearable questions. One had lost her will to live. The other had come to bring a final, eternal hope.

      With the burden of his mission weighing heavy on his heart, Reverend Horatio Beauregard O’Toole swallowed his own sense of helplessness and looked at the haggard woman battling for each breath. There was little left of the vibrant creature Beau had met when he was but a boy. The gifted lead actress who had inspired a generation of aspiring young girls was now a broken shell of her former greatness.

      She had no more faith. No more purpose.

      No more hope.

      Beau could barely reconcile this beaten woman with the one who had played some of the greatest heroines onstage with such confidence and verve. Once her crowning glory, now her hair hung in blond, dirty strings. Her skin pulled taut across her thin face, while her eyes had sunk deep in their sockets. She was a mere apparition of the beautiful woman the public had adored with near obsession.

      Beau dropped his chin to his chest and released a defeated sigh. No. He would not give up on the woman his mother had once called friend.

      He lifted a skinny, limp hand into his, closed his fingers over the pale, graying skin. “Miss Jane, all is not lost.”

      She gave him a ragged, quivering sigh.

      With his own answering sigh, he released her hand and brought a glass of water to her cracked lips. He lifted her shoulders with one hand and helped her navigate the glass with the other. “You may still survive if you turn from this life forever. We could leave for Colorado Springs this afternoon.”

      Jane took a slow, choking sip and then leaned back. “No.” A slow, harsh breath wheezed out of her. “It’s too late.”

      The words had barely slid off her tongue when she broke into a fit of coughs.

      Beau pressed a white cloth against her mouth, afraid each cough wrenching through her fragile body would tear her flesh from the bone. After the bout ceased, Beau pulled back the cloth now filled with the red stain of blood.

      Blood from her damaged lungs.

      Another moment passed in utter silence.

      Beau’s heart pounded so hard with anguish for her, for what she’d become, he thought he might choke from it. Now that the stage was no longer a viable prospect, Jane Goodwin had chosen to earn her money in the most hideous way imaginable. It hurt to see how far she’d fallen.

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