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No Amanda.
“Miss Perkins!”
One of the stagehands comes hurrying into the hallway carrying a headset and clipboard.
“We need Miss Perkins on set.”
I glance at my watch automatically.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes.
It’s been too long.
Something ugly twists in my gut.
“I'll get her,” I tell him.
The kid nods and disappears.
I walk toward Amanda's dressing room.
Not rushing.
Not yet.
Just moving with purpose.
Because maybe she's changing.
Maybe Brielle stopped by when I was checking the exits.
Maybe she's fixing her makeup.
Maybe—I knock.
“Rusty?”
Nothing.
Not unusual.
Sometimes she loses herself in character.
I smile despite myself.
My girl gets tunnel vision.
I knock again.
Louder.
“Sweetheart?”
Nothing.
And suddenly every instinct I've developed over twenty years of military service and private security starts screaming.
