"Rachel's dead. They need you at the theater in an hour." Mira Vale had been Rachel Ashford's understudy for three months. Three months of watching from the wings, learning her blocking, memorizing her inflections. Three months of hoping—in the dark, shameful part of her heart—that something would happen. That she'd get her chance. Not this. Never this.
Opening night at the Meridian Theater, and Mira walks onto the stage wearing Medea's robes. The reviews are spectacular. They call the terror in her eyes craft. They don't know it's survival. Because Rachel Ashford is in the audience.
Back row, first performance. Row twenty, second night. Row ten. Row five. Front row, close enough to see the pallor of her skin, the strange stillness of her chest. She never breathes. Never blinks. Just watches with those dark, intent eyes, getting closer every night. By the tenth performance, she's in the wings. By closing night, she's behind Mira. And her hands keep making the same shapes. Warning. Danger. Behind.
