Chapter One

Chloe Foster ran her thumb over Sky Stryker’s name, pleased with how the exquisite copperplate calligraphy had turned out. The gold-trimmed envelope looked so polished and professional, there was no way it would get lost among the piles of junk mail everyone received these days.

Despite the icy New York City breeze whipping strands of her long hair across her face, she smiled as she dropped the invitation in the corner mailbox. “I’ll see you soon, friend. You can help me celebrate my debut.”

Pulling her coat tighter to stave off the November chill, she glanced around the nearly empty streets and sidewalk, where the morning rush had yet to begin, and hustled the last two blocks to her destination.

The Oleander Theatre loomed larger than life in the quiet of the morning. Eight ornate Ionic columns adorned the gray sandstone building, giving it a sense of majesty that distinguished it from the other towering structures lining the street. High arched windows leered down as if they were peering straight through to her soul, ready to cast judgment. Chloe stared up at the theater from the sidewalk.

Would she be enough, or would she be found wanting?

This magnificent structure had seen its fair share of productions come and go. Some shows maintained lasting appeal, while others faded into obscurity. Chloe knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this place would change her life forever. She wouldn’t be found lacking. Once her show debuted, she’d be known on Broadway.

Heart pounding, she heaved open one of the heavy doors and entered the lobby. The theater was dark and quiet, just as she’d hoped. Rehearsals wouldn’t move in here for another few weeks. The building would be a zoo of frenetic activity then. But for now, while the actors rehearsed in the nearby Concrete Projects Studio, it was her sanctuary.

The door slammed behind her, echoing all around the empty marble-adorned lobby as the box office manager raised a hand in greeting. “Good day, Ms. Foster. Can I help you with anything?”

Chloe’s cheeks flushed hot. “Hi, Jonathan. I was just popping by to…have a look.”

The older man smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling with kindness. “Understood. Go right ahead.”

I’m definitely not the first writer to stop by on an off day, just to take it all in.

Chloe unzipped her coat, strolling past the box office and grand staircases that led to the upper mezzanine, heading toward another set of doors that would welcome her into the auditorium.

No matter how many times she walked through those doors, her skin still broke out in goose bumps the moment the stage came into view.

After all her hard work, it seemed surreal to be within weeks of debuting her first musical on Broadway. She’d been writing and fine-tuning the play for years. So many late nights swallowed by trauma and tears as she relived the pain, pouring her soul onto the pages.

Her story would finally be told, albeit with a generous helping of creative license. No one needed to know the autobiographical nature of the story. The piece was compelling, perfect for just this kind of setting.

Moving to the front row, Chloe stared up at the stage. The deep-purple grand drapes had been lifted, giving a view of the unfinished set.

Envisioning opening night, when all the final touches would be complete, Chloe climbed onto center stage.

The dancers would be to the left, their colorful costumes fluttering as they twirled through the choreography. To her right, the lead would sing, her voice filling the theater with lyrics that Chloe once used to soothe herself after nightmares.

In just a month, her narrative would become a beautiful celebration of dance, song, and storytelling.

But would it be worth the price she’d paid to bring her dream to fruition?

She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself in the chilly theater.

The soft smile on her face faded as her guilty conscience replayed the memory of her shame.

Against her will, her brain shifted from happy visions of opening night to memories of the afternoon she pitched her musical to the sleazy Mr. Ethridge.

The butterflies in her stomach had seemed more like bats back then, when she’d first sat down with him. She’d seen Mr. Ethridge plenty of times—on television, walking red carpets, gracing magazine covers, charming late-night talk show audiences with tales of his numerous endeavors. An older, rotund man, he had graying hair and a round face full of expression.

Like the friendly grandpa of Hollywood.

Their initial conversation had gone smoothly. His words were encouraging, telling her she was going to be the next Broadway sensation. He declared his great faith in her work.

Wrapped up in her euphoria, she hadn’t caught the hunger in his eyes. In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious he was watching her tits bounce with every ecstatic thank you as she clapped with delight.

On any other day, with any other guy, she’d have called him out. “Eyes up here, mister.” But she’d missed that red flag.

Mr. Ethridge had been talking to her chest when he replied. “Let’s chat some more later, to iron out the details. I’ll be in touch.”

She just nodded like a bobblehead, her voice breathy with excitement. “Yes, sir. Anything.”

If only she had known what she’d committed herself to.

In time, she learned to hate that wide, creepy smile of his. How she’d ever viewed it in a positive light was a mystery. He was a man all too aware of the power he possessed.

He moved fast. Only a week after she’d agreed to work together, Chloe returned to his office for their meeting.

He had a car waiting and insisted they discuss their business in a more comfortable setting.

Chloe had to admit she was pretty proud of herself, and she was dressed to impress. She’d picked out her nicest pencil skirt and had paired it with a silk blouse that buttoned to her neck.

She even selected jewelry to help her appear sophisticated, wanting to visually convey her professional side. She hoped to show Mr. Ethridge how serious she planned to be with his money and the production.

As the car pulled off, her stomach fluttered with excitement. No doubt they were going to discuss things over dinner. That was how the business world operated. Contracts over cocktails.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a lavish hotel. Two minutes after that, they bypassed the restaurant inside and headed for the elevators.

The truth hit Chloe then like a freight train.

They weren’t there to talk.

Mr. Ethridge guided her straight to the hotel room and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door before locking it.

She closed her eyes for a second, praying she was dreaming. That none of this was really happening. She couldn’t actually be expected to sleep with him, right?

When she reopened her eyes, he’d already disrobed, confirming her worst fear.

Chloe’s stomach lurched. This man was older than her father.

Any delusions of his grandfatherly demeanor were wiped away as he stood naked next to the king-size bed in all his saggy, liver-spotted glory. “I promise to make your musical a hit. But there’s just one thing you have to do for me first.” Crooking a finger for her to join him, he patted the top of the mattress. “Do we have a deal?”

Chloe swallowed. This wasn’t what she wanted, but saying no to Mr. Ethridge would mean killing her show, maybe even get herself blacklisted in the industry. It might never get sold, never get produced. He wielded that kind of power.

With her dreams right there, within arm’s reach, Chloe couldn’t bear to let them slip away. Not when she was so close…

Resigning herself to her fate, she nodded.

Mr. Ethridge closed the gap between them and breathed in her ear. “Good girl.” His stubby hands found their way under her carefully chosen skirt. The next thing Chloe knew, she was on the bed with Mr. Ethridge’s hefty body pressing her into the mattress.

She closed her eyes, singing a song from her musical in her head, imagining her name in shiny lights above the theater as she ignored the tears that spilled over from the corners of her eyes, soaking into her hair.

Sniffling as the unpleasant memory faded, Chloe flicked a tear from her cheek.

She had no right to cry. She’d willingly gone along with Mr. Ethridge’s demands, because getting on Broadway was worth more than her self-respect.

That was what she kept telling herself anyway.

Maybe she truly was the horrible person she’d always believed herself to be. Maybe it hadn’t been depression all along, skewing her worldview. She’d been so willing to prostitute herself. Why? All it had taken was the promise of money and recognition. Perhaps she truly was a creature of darkness. No wonder that perverted old man treated her as a plaything.

To make matters worse, sleeping her way to success came at a heartbreaking price. In the shameful aftermath of that dreadful evening, unable to look at her own reflection, Chloe ended her relationship with the one man who truly cared for her, Mason Roth. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes after what she’d done. She was damaged goods, and he deserved better.

Another tear streaked down her face. Suck it up, buttercup. You’re not the first girl who spread her legs for some creep to make her dreams come true.

Chloe jumped as footsteps clapped across the stage floor, echoing around the theater like a ghostly march.

“Jonathan?” She glanced around the stage, searching for the box office manager’s lanky form as the shadowy auditorium returned to silence.

Possibly one of the maintenance crew had simply been passing through. While no performers or union members would be in the building on a Monday, the theater staff likely still carried on with their duties.

Or it’s the actual ghosts of performers past making sure you don’t forget this is still their theater.

Chloe shuddered, not immune to the superstitions of stage life, though she’d never been one to believe too deeply in the spooky, otherworldly phenomenon that many of the cast and crew subscribed to with bountiful paranoia.

It’s amazing what seems possible when you’re standing alone in a dark auditorium.

Taking a deep breath, Chloe refocused and managed a grin. “Just you and your dreams in attendance this morning.” With a satisfied crack of her knuckles, she set off downstage to exit.

Footsteps thudded fast behind her. Before she could turn, a pair of hands wrenched her shoulders.

She cried out. Shock vibrated through her muscles as fingers yanked her backward.

Fight or flight kicked in, and as adrenaline dumped into her system, Chloe summoned all the strength within her. She hadn’t survived a hard life, spent countless years putting her story to paper, and slept with a sick pervert just to be taken out a month before her dreams came to fruition.

Letting loose a terrified scream, Chloe flailed her arms as hard as she could, hoping at least one of her wild swings might smack whoever was attacking her.

Off balance and wobbling, she was too slow to shake her attacker’s grip. She screamed again, but her desperate cry was cut short by a thick chain wrapped tightly around her neck. Chloe gasped, grappling at the cold metal. The sound of a truss hook clasping into place echoed across the stage.

Chloe struggled to inhale. “Please!”

The word was little more than a breathless laugh. Theatrical. A twisted final act she hadn’t written.

Using the last of her strength, she reached back. Her fingernails caught soft flesh as they scraped across her assailant’s skin, but the person slipped back from her reach.

Why is this happening?

She’d done everything asked of her. She’d been friendly and helpful with the cast and crew. There was no reason for someone to want to hurt her.

Maybe this was just a cruel prank?

Seconds later, that question was answered when the familiar buzz of the hoist motor hummed to life. She frantically clawed at the chain, but it did no good. Cruelly, the noose tightened more, lifting her off the floor with mechanical precision. Her feet dangled, toes scraping for the stage she’d always commanded but could no longer control.

No, no, no.

As steel links bit into her throat, the world below her blurred, and she could almost hear the echo of an audience waiting for the next line. Fleeting thoughts of her debut crossed her mind—the curtains rising, the lights coming up, the applause she would never hear. Her masterpiece would open without her.

Her pulse raced as darkness crept in, fear curling icy tendrils around her spine. This wasn’t the stage death she’d imagined. This was real.

Her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, but there was no air left. No final monologue. Just the cold, unyielding grip of the noose. Her mind spun with unfinished dialogue, scenes she would never write, lines that would go unspoken.

Chloe’s vision dimmed, and her body felt weightless as she was pulled higher, suspended over the empty auditorium. The mechanical hum ceased, leaving only silence, save for the blood pounding in her ears.

In her final moments, she thought she saw her family in the very first seats. They were crying as the curtain fell, not on the play she had written, but on her life. A closing act she never saw coming.

As the darkness took her, Chloe’s story came to an abrupt, tragic end—her final breath vanishing into the stillness of the empty theater.

Chapter Two

“Hi, Mrs. Foster. This is Sky Stryker, a friend of—”

“Yes, dear. I know who you are.”

“I’m just calling to offer my condolences. I am so sorry about Chloe…I just can’t believe this happened.” Sky pulled her knees to her chest, sinking deeper into the well-worn cushions of her couch.

Tears choked Mrs. Foster’s voice as she spoke. “Thank you, Sky. I really appreciate your call. I know you were a good friend to Chloe.” The poor woman broke into sobs that flooded Sky’s ears.

As Chloe’s mom cried, Sky struggled with what to say, wishing she could reach through the phone to give the mourning mother a hug.

Sky and Chloe had been roommates during their college years. Both English majors pursuing writing careers, they’d struck up an easy friendship. While so many school friends lost touch after graduation, limiting their interactions to the occasional “like” on social media, Sky and Chloe had continued their friendship even after leaving the college campus.

Although life events had prevented them from physically spending time together over the past couple of years, they’d remained close—and when Chloe’s debut was about to hit the Broadway stage, she’d gifted Sky with a pair of tickets.

Sitting together with her friend, Javier Bainbridge, in the Jolly Bean Coffeehouse the previous day, Sky had been delighted to open the fancy envelope from Chloe and find the invitation. But her joy had lasted barely a minute before Javier broke the tragic news to her via an article on his phone.

Chloe Foster had died the previous Monday. And the media was calling it suicide, no less. Her friend had been dead for three whole days before Sky had even known it. It had taken Sky a full day to feel strong enough to call Chloe’s mom.

“The media called it…” Sky couldn’t say the word. “They said she took her own life. Do you think that’s possible?”

Mrs. Foster growled low in her throat. “Damn media. They rush to report everything these days. Just gotta be the one to release their damn breaking story. They don’t even care if they’re right.”

Sky couldn’t argue that. She’d seen it happen often enough.

“Did they find a note or anything like that?”

“No, which makes even less sense.” Mrs. Foster blew her nose. “I mean, I know Chloe was often down, but she wouldn’t do something so terrible without saying goodbye.”

“Had she been down lately?”

“Occasionally. She tried to hide it, but a mother knows. For a long while, I worried she might not make it out of that dark place, but I thought…I thought…the musical would turn it all around for her. She’d find her footing, make the right connections, you know? She was so young with so much potential. And just that morning…just that morning. She’d sounded so excited about the future.”

Sky rubbed her forehead. “You spoke with her Monday morning? The day she died?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Foster’s voice cracked with despair. “Chloe was getting coffee. She called me, all bubbly and exuberant, going on and on about the show. Her big debut. She was giddy with anticipation. How…how could she, just hours later, succumb to suicide?”

The news had come as a shock to Sky as well. She couldn’t remember how long she’d sat staring at the screen of Javier’s phone, unable to accept the words she was reading.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around Chloe being gone—forever—especially so close to the debut of her first Broadway show. But later that evening, when news reporters covered the story, she couldn’t deny the truth. Chloe was dead.

Sky bit down on her lip ’til it hurt. “I guess we can’t really know where she was truly at emotionally.”

A persistent pang of guilt twanged in her chest. She hadn’t hung out with Chloe in so long. Maybe if she had, her friend wouldn’t be dead.

No. That was naive thinking. Sky had studied her fair share of psychology and understood that plenty of people battling demons were skilled at hiding their pain from loved ones. Even if she’d hung out with Chloe more, she might not have seen the signs.

Maybe she hadn’t known Chloe as well as she’d thought. The past year had been hectic for Sky. Since moving to Manhattan from Albany, she hadn’t kept up with her old friends as well as she would’ve liked. Maybe during that time, Chloe had struggled with depression and couldn’t escape.

Chloe had always been a perfectionist, someone who never left a loose end, who poured herself into every detail until it was flawless. But what if, standing on the edge of her dreams, she had feared failure more than anything? Had the pressure of living up to her own impossibly high standards driven her to do the unthinkable?

Sky’s heart twisted at the thought. She struggled to reconcile the friend she knew—so full of ambition, always striving—with the idea that Chloe had seen no other way out. Could the fear of not being perfect have felt so unbearable that she’d chosen to escape it in the only way she could?

Mrs. Foster sniffled, urgency edging her words. “A year ago, I would’ve agreed. Chloe battled for so long, and I didn’t know exactly where she was. How bleak the world had gotten for her. I could only guess. But Monday morning, I knew, Sky. She told me. Her world was sparkling. I’ve heard Chloe happy, and I’ve heard her pretending to be happy more times than I can count. She was truly happy.”

Her heart twisting, Sky thought of the note Chloe had penned inside the envelope with the tickets for the show.

It’s all happening! Promise you’ll come!

“Mrs. Foster, I—”

“The police told me the maintenance worker found her shortly before noon.” The grieving woman grew increasingly agitated. “But she sent me a picture of the theater when she arrived that day too. With three exclamation marks and three happy faces. It had to have been horribly close to the time of her death. To the time that someone took her life.”

Sky straightened on the couch, winding her long auburn hair into a sloppy bun on top of her head while holding the phone between her cheek and shoulder. “She texted you from the theater? Right before she died? And the police didn’t find that suspicious?”

“They said that they will, of course, investigate for any signs that Chloe’s death wasn’t a suicide. But they didn’t think the text or the call contradicted the possibility of suicide. They said that the hoist that she used to…” She began to cry again.

Sky’s mind whirred. “A hoist? I don’t understand. Would the switch that ran the hoist be backstage or in a control room or something?”

She blew her nose again. “I asked the same thing. It was apparently a mobile hoist they used while building the stage. The switch was,” her voice warbled, “right there.”

“Oh.” Sky rubbed her temple. “But you don’t agree with them, that she’d do that?”

“No.” Mrs. Foster let out a long sigh. “I understand that people make calls. They send texts. That doesn’t mean they aren’t suicidal. But I know Chloe when she’s lost in the darkness. She doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. She certainly doesn’t laugh and celebrate and send pictures and happy-face emojis. She was in a good place. I promise you.”

Sky’s insides wrenched at the thought of yet another run-in not only with death…but with murder. “To send pictures of the theater where her show was set to debut and then be gone within an hour…it does seem off, Mrs. Foster.”

“Thank you.” Chloe’s mother breathed heavily into the phone. “Something told me you’d understand. I’ve been keeping up with your career. You helped the police with your cousin’s murder case, and I’ve read your tell-alls. I realize you’ve been through absolute hell in your own life, but I can’t help asking, begging you, to look into Chloe’s death.”

Stunned, Sky gazed blankly around her modest Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment.

More murder investigation? I’m a writer. I’m not a…not a…homicide detective.

“You don’t have to answer me right now, dear.” Mrs. Foster was quick to remove any pressure. “I know you’re grieving too. But give it some consideration, please. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t certain someone killed my daughter. And since the police seem to think she could have done this to herself, I don’t know how hard they’ll investigate. It’s just one more reason why I need your investigative help. Someone wanted Chloe dead.”

“Okay.” Sky spoke the word, despite her entire body coiling up at the thought of anyone hurting sweet Chloe. “I’ll consider it. I’ll call you soon.”

“Thank you so much, dear.” Fresh sobs carried through the airwaves. “I knew I could count on you.”

The call ended, and Sky dropped her phone on the couch. She hadn’t outright agreed to anything, but Mrs. Foster was obviously predicting she would.

Shudders racked her body.

Another senseless loss piled on top of all the others she’d been forced to endure.

The cycle had started when her best friend, Tessa Emerson, had died in Sky’s arms when they were only fourteen years old. She’d been murdered. It had continued when her streetwise friend and pseudo big brother, Jarrod Mitchell, was shot during a drug deal gone wrong just a few years later.

Soon after she’d arrived in New York, her cousin, Megan Nowicki, was killed and found in a garment bag in the Hudson River.

Not too long ago, during the making of a documentary on the death of her best friend, an interviewee had been killed by—and here was the kicker—none other than the man who’d murdered Tessa all those years ago. What a nightmare that had turned out to be.

More recently, several people died at Veronica Kernrow’s Vermont mansion. Only five days had passed since that disaster, and Sky hadn’t even begun to process the trauma that “weekend of death” caused her.

The grim reaper should offer her a punch card. At least then she could claim some reward for all the pain of being so close to so many deaths. It didn’t matter how many times she came across a dead body. Whether it be a friend or stranger, each one carved another hole in her heart.

This one, though, was too close, too soon. Did Sky have it in her to delve into what might be another murder of someone she held dear?

Grimacing, she picked up her cell phone and unlocked the screen, the display still set to the article she’d been reading about Chloe. She read the words for the hundredth time, as if a new clue might leap out at her.

But the passages were all still the same, describing how Chloe Foster, twenty-five, had been found hanging from a rafter above the stage at Oleander Theatre, where her musical was set to debut in a month. A maintenance worker had discovered her body.

That was all. No other details. No other clues. Nothing more to the story.

Finally closing the article so she wouldn’t drive herself crazy reading it another hundred times, Sky rested her head on the couch back and studied the ceiling, her gaze tracing a crack in the paint.

Mrs. Foster’s call with Chloe, and the messages her daughter had sent shortly before her death, didn’t exactly prove anything, but they did rub Sky the wrong way. The details were enough to bring to life a nagging sense of doubt she knew would only continue to grow.

Someone wanted Chloe dead.

Drumming her fingers on her knee, Sky pondered her next move. If she stayed inside the four walls of her apartment with nothing to distract her, she was bound to go insane.

Standing, she stuck her phone into the pocket of her sweatpants and tucked her laptop under her arm. She knew just the company she needed for a change of scenery and to get out of her own head.