Jolted by a sudden burst of fascination, I half-expect to rub elbows with other performers. But the long galleys where they usually prepare for the show are vacant. There is no chatter, no voices rehearsing this or that line from some script, no last-minute agitation before curtain-rise. No actors parading shamelessly in nothing but glitzy dance belts. No actresses flitting about with fluffy slippers and flapping robes that reveal more nudity than they cover.
Frosted LED globe bulbs, currently devoid of electricity, dot the top and side edges of one wall-mounted mirror after another. All the glass reflects, as Linda passes ahead of me, is a nervous tick in her hollow cheek.
Linda plops down on a vanity stool and, without losing a beat, reaches behind a freestanding vanity mirror and grabs something that’s been hidden behind. A half-full bottle of Vodka. She pours some into her mug, and her fingers tremble as she takes a long swig. Then she asks, “Want some?”
“No.”
“Like my dressing room?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“It shouldn’t be called that,” she says. “The last thing I do in this place is put on clothes.” The second gulp seems to soothe her nerves. “This, Ash darling, is where I take me off. I scrape away my persona, remove the extraneous layers of self that burden me.”
With that, she begins to wipe off her makeup with a cotton pad, careful not to scrub the sensitive skin around the eyes. “Actually, I’m glad you came.”
Which sets me back on my heels. “You are?”
“I hate being alone. In normal days, people drop in all the time—”
“In normal days,” I cut in, “I would love to hear about all that—”
“I find it intoxicating when, for better or worse, people take note of me,” she says, pretending not to take any note of my snide tone. “Imagine them: The director, suggesting a last-minute adjustment. An ensemble member, complaining—the poor loser—about the applause I got, which interrupted his lines. An adoring fan, bringing in a bouquet of flowers..."
Her bullet grazed his head, but the leader of a Russian crime organization is still breathing. One way for Vlad to avoid paying the price for his crimes is to play dead; another is to play dying. For Ash, this is not a game. She must learn his secrets. Only one problem: because of the raging pandemic, she must put her plan on hold.
Vlad slips away from the hospital in a body bag, then develops a brazen fraud scheme that will bilk health insurance companies out of millions of dollars. If not caught in time, he will drive victims to suicide, rob Ash of her identity, and slit her throat.
Will Ash manage to stay one step ahead of him and at the same time, protect her loved ones from contagion?
