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The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The hallway feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
The laughter and bustle from backstage suddenly seem far away.
Disconnected.
Cold dread trickles down my spine.
“Rusty?”
I try the handle.
Locked.
My blood turns to ice.
Amanda never locks the door when I’m outside it.
Never.
Not once in three weeks.
“Amanda!”
Nothing.
Not even movement.
And now I'm breathing harder.
Thinking faster.
Too fast.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
No.
No.
No, sweetheart, answer me.
I hit the door with my shoulder.
The frame groans.
Doesn't give.
I hit it again.
Harder.
Wood splinters.
