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No Amanda.

“Miss Perkins!”

One of the stagehands comes hurrying into the hallway carrying a headset and clipboard.

“We need Miss Perkins on set.”

I glance at my watch automatically.

Five minutes.

Five fucking minutes.

It’s been too long.

Something ugly twists in my gut.

“I'll get her,” I tell him.

The kid nods and disappears.

I walk toward Amanda's dressing room.

Not rushing.

Not yet.

Just moving with purpose.

Because maybe she's changing.

Maybe Brielle stopped by when I was checking the exits.

Maybe she's fixing her makeup.

Maybe—I knock.

“Rusty?”

Nothing.

Not unusual.

Sometimes she loses herself in character.

I smile despite myself.

My girl gets tunnel vision.

I knock again.

Louder.

“Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

And suddenly every instinct I've developed over twenty years of military service and private security starts screaming.