Page 47 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

Another voice joined the call.

“Cassidy, this is Isabel. Melanie’s name is on the approved list, but I don’t have the final check-in roster yet. The outer media desk hasn’t sent it back.”

“So we don’t know whether she’s entered the pavilion,” Cassidy said.

“We don’t know yet. I’ve requested an immediate check and alerted the venue leads. Her name will be flagged before anyone clears another credential.”

“What about the artist suite and stage corridor?”

“We’re rechecking both. Access is restricted until you arrive.”

Cassidy faced me. “The show stays scheduled unless the risk changes.”

“I’m not canceling because a name appeared.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Return through the service entrance,” Rafi said. “Isabel will send the final time once the route is clear.”

“We’ll be ready,” Cassidy said.

The call ended.

For a moment, only the waves filled the space between us.

Yesterday, the person watching me had been a blank account, a camera somewhere beyond the hedge, and a message left beneath a water glass.

Now we had a likely name: Melanie Keene. If Rafi was right, she’d turned a real crowd into a trap and cropped Cassidy’s hand at my waist. Her media credential gave her a legitimate path into the pavilion.

Cassidy slipped her phone away and reached for my hand again.

If Melanie Keene came to High Tide Pavilion, she wouldn’t have to sneak in.

Someone had already approved her to walk through the door.

Chapter Five

THE EMPTY SEATS ATHigh Tide Pavilion didn’t scream, surge, or ask Shane for selfies, which made them my favorite audience he’d had all weekend.

They also didn’t make the place feel safe.

Stage lights heated the taped floor marks while camera shutters clicked from behind the limited-media barrier. The photographers had been confined to one area. Isabel still hadn’t received the final roster from the outer desk, which meant Melanie Keene’s name remained a possibility instead of a confirmed presence.

Shane walked beside me through the service corridor as though none of that could touch him.

He wore a sleeveless sand-colored top, light-gray performance trousers, and the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly what the fabric did to his shoulders. I wore dark navy, charcoal, an earpiece, and no patience for the way my attention kept drifting to him anyway.

“Still with me?” I asked.

“Physically, emotionally, and against several recommendations from my management team.”

“That wasn’t an emotional check-in.”

“It could’ve been.”

An SBS agent opened the secured door ahead of us. White light spilled across black cables, instrument stands, and the empty rows facing the Atlantic.