With another episode of Chicago crime recorded for the archives, Brycen Cage walked off the set of Speak of the Dead and headed backstage. Fans loved the chilling, grisly, terrible stories. He’d discovered a talent for reproducing them in a much lighter tone than their reality, the darkest side of humanity twisted into entertainment. Ten years ago, if anyone had told him he’d end up somewhat of a celebrity showcasing murder, he’d have laughed.

He greeted a stagehand on his way down a dimly lit hallway toward his dressing room. Outside the double doors, two security guards waited. A few other crew members busied themselves closing out the program and prepping the stage for tomorrow’s schedule. Brycen liked the social aspect of the show. It beat interacting with the dead.

His agent let five or six people into his dressing room after every live taping. Good PR, he’d said. Entering the clean, white-walled, well-lit room, he saw the fans waiting for him just inside, five women and one man. The man seemed out of place in a casual business jacket with a cowboy hat shading his gray eyes and black hair sticking out from the rim. Men rarely came here for an autograph.

He focused on the women, one tall and slender, one short and chesty, one average but great-looking blonde, another taller blonde and a fifty-something librarian stereotype.

“Hello, ladies.” He inserted himself in the middle of the women and took the first pen offered him. His agent made sure they all brought their own pens. The women giggled breathlessly—all but the fifty-something. She watched with an entertained smile, or maybe a fond smile best described that look. The man stepped back and waited. He didn’t have a pen and paper ready. If he wasn’t here for an autograph, what did he want?

“I love your shows,” the great-looking blonde said.

Who could love murder stories about real people? A living, breathing human being had suffered horrifically at the hands of a perverted monster and people loved hearing about it?

“Thanks.” He gave her his standard charmer of a grin. Had she demonstrated more intelligence, he would not be opposed to spending some personal time with her.

“Are you still a detective?” the chesty woman asked, waiting to hand him her paper and pen.

She came off as shy and a little innocent. Sweet. With a nonstandard, genuine smile for her, he signed the blonde’s autograph. “I don’t work for the Chicago police anymore, no.” He came to this studio and recorded shows on cases he’d solved over the years. Talking about them was much easier than having them front and center in his face.

He handed the great-looking but not-so-bright blonde his autograph, and one of the security guards ushered her out the door.

“I love your shows on Alaska,” the chesty woman said, handing him her pen and paper.

She ruined his opinion of her by bringing up Alaska. “Thanks.”

“Do a lot of criminals go to Alaska to hide?” she asked.

“Some.” He handed her the autographed plain piece of paper. “Thanks for coming to my show.”

She looked disappointed at the brevity of their chat. This wasn’t supposed to take long. The other security guard ushered her out the door as the first one returned.

“I’m Carol,” the tall and slender woman said, thrusting a pen and pad of flowery stationery paper toward him. People handed him all sorts of media to sign. The oddest one so far was a giant wall clock. The visual still made him want to chuckle. What made that woman decide on the clock, and why have his name so prominently displayed? Did time have some meaning? The short time humans had to live? Or had she been fascinated by murder and got a thrill every time she saw his name? Maybe both. Who knew?

“Will you write great to meet you, let’s get together sometime?” Carol flashed her pretty brown eyes with a big smile, all in fun.

He admired her courage. “I’d be glad to.” He began to write.

“Do you mean it?” she asked excitedly.

Finished writing, he handed her the pen and stationery back. “Of course. Now you can show all your friends.” He always got uncomfortable when the groupies came to see him. He wasn’t a rock star, after all.

Her smile deflated a bit when she noticed his neutrality, or lack of interest, as she might interpret.

“Right this way,” the security guard said, guiding her away.

She looked back over her shoulder as though lamenting the failure of this one attempt to hook up with someone famous. Well, not famous. His show was popular, that was all. And he did like his privacy.

“Is it true that you don’t believe in marriage?” the tall blonde asked, handing him her piece of paper.

A magazine had done an interview with him once, a few months ago. Promotion, his agent had said. He hadn’t enjoyed it at all. Talking about his personal life always set him on edge. “I’m a skeptic.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love?” She smiled flirtatiously.

“Once, but it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.” He handed her the pen and paper and nodded to the other security guard.

Her flirty smile vanished at his easy dismissal. She didn’t look back as she was taken through the door.

The fifty-something handed him a photograph of himself. She’d patiently waited, like the man hanging back in the shadows. Brycen glanced over at him watching the exchange as he likely had done with all the others, nothing revealing on his face or in his eyes. Who the hell was this guy?

“It’s so refreshing to know there are people like you left in this world,” the fifty-something said.

Her sincerity brought his attention right back to her.

“My daughter was murdered eleven years ago and her case was just solved a few months ago, thanks to one of your shows,” she said. “She was murdered by that serial rapist you put away in Chicago a few years ago. The detectives didn’t put it together until your show aired. A DNA test СКАЧАТЬ

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