Page 44 of Carnival’s Playground

"Or he was here recently enough to know the layout hasn't changed," Renn corrects. "Either way, I'm doubling the patrol near this corner specifically."

"What about the show?" I press. "Do we run the aerial act tonight?"

"We run it," Dutch decides. "But we station somebody right here, right by this exit, the entire performance. Somebody who doesn't move."

"I'll do it," Carnival volunteers.

"No," I disagree, shaking my head. "You're needed on the rigging crew during the act. I'll take the exit post."

"Avery—" he starts, that stubborn edge creeping into his voice.

"Carnival," I counter, matching it right back. "I can hold a post. I'm not made of glass."

He studies me for a long second, jaw working like he wants to argue, and then something in his face softens instead. "Fine," he relents. "But you radio the second anything feels wrong. Anything. I don't care how small."

"Deal," I agree.

Renn straightens, tucking her flashlight away. "I'll station a deputy fifteen feet from that post too. Nobody's standing alone out here tonight, not with this."

"Good," Dutch grunts. "Now somebody fix that damn wire before I lose what's left of my mind."

Petey returns with the spare wire, and Carnival crouches to splice it in while I hold the flashlight steady, our shoulders brushing in the cramped space beneath the light panel.

"You scared?" Carnival asks quietly, not looking up from the wire.

"Terrified," I admit. "Doesn't mean I'm backing down."

"Never thought you would," he murmurs, glancing up at me, something warm cutting through the tension in his eyes.

"Good," I state. "Because I meant what I said last night. We're in this together."

"Together," he repeats, and for a second the whole nightmare outside this little pocket of light feels almost bearable. He finishes the splice, flips the switch, and the exit sign flickers back to life, steady red glow washing over both of us. "There," he announces, standing and brushing his hands off. "One less problem."

"One less problem," I repeat. "About a hundred more to go."

"We'll get through them," he vows, reaching for my hand.

We finish the last sweep just as the first cars start rolling into the lot, headlights cutting through the deepening dusk, Halloween music drifting out over the loudspeakers, the whole midway coming alive with color and noise like nothing's wrong at all. "Doors open in ten," Petey calls out, jogging past with his radio pressed to his ear. "Ten minutes," I mutter, glancing toward the growing line of guests at the front gate, costumes and painted faces and excited chatter carrying on the cool night air.

"You alright?” Carnival asks, squeezing my hand once before letting go.

"I'm okay,” I answer, though my pulse is hammering hard enough that I'm not entirely sure it's true. The gates swing open, and the crowd pours in, laughing, snapping photos in front of the pumpkin displays, completely unaware of the wire we just spliced, the fence we just fixed, the shadow still hiding somewhere in all this noise and light. And as I take my post by the exit, watching families and couples and shrieking teenagers stream past me into the tent, one thought settles cold and certain in my chest. He's already here. Somewhere in this crowd, wearing some ordinary face, waiting for the lights to dim and the music to start.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CARNIVAL

The crowd swallows the midway whole inside of ten minutes—kids with plastic fangs and painted skulls dragging their parents toward the funnel cake stand, the whole lot lit up gold and orange under strings of bulbs shaped like little grinning pumpkins. I stand near the rigging post with my radio clipped to my belt, watching every face that passes like it might be the one we're looking for.

Petey slides past me with a crate of extra fuses. "You're staring."

"I'm working," I tell him.

"Looks like staring," he mutters, and keeps walking before I can argue. Maybe he's right. Maybe I've been staring at every man over six feet since the gates opened, cataloguing shoes and jackets and the way people hold their shoulders, looking for something wrong in a sea of costumes built to look wrong on purpose.

Hell of a way to spend a Tuesday.

I check the aerial rig first, running my hand along the main line just like I did an hour ago, and the hour before that. Tension's solid. Anchor bolts are tight. The splice Avery and I fixed earlier glows red against the dark canvas overhead, the little sign beneath it reading exit in soft even light.