Page 62

The scenic divider rolled across the passage.

“Sybil!”

Damien’s voice came from the other side.

The divider slammed against the opposite stop.

I spun and grabbed its edge.

It didn’t move.

“Damien?”

“I’m here.”

His radio clicked a fraction of a second later.

“Stay where you are. I’m taking the outside path.”

Then movement sounded behind me, and it wasn’t Damien.

I turned.

Grant Bellamy stepped into the emergency glow with a steel mallet in one hand.

For a second, he looked like someone who could plausibly be there: a former employee, an old supervisor, a man O’Shea had questioned.

Then I saw the way he gripped the mallet, ready to swing. He wasn’t carrying a tool from one job to another. He was carrying a weapon.

I raised the radio.

“Damien, Grant’s here. I’m moving toward the rear exit.”

“Go.”

I ran.

Grant came after me.

My boots hit the packed flooring hard enough to jar my knees as I cut through the transition toward the rear route.

The emergency lighting was enough. I knew the set without show lights: where the walls were, where the openings were, and what I had changed.

“Sybil!”

Grant’s voice hit the wall behind me.

I ignored him.

The lane divided ahead.

The old return path would have sent me back toward the attraction.

The current route turned right behind a set wall and led out toward the rear emergency lane.

Grant angled left toward the old return path.

Last year, I would have followed it. I took the right-hand opening.