Chapter 14 - The Empty TheaterPanic moved through my body with physical, nauseating force. We had pushed him too far.
David immediately called Noah's friend Mason. Noah wasn't there. We grabbed our coats and ran out into the evening. We checked the college campus, the riverside trail where he liked to walk, Rebecca’s storage unit, and the local coffee shop. The sky opened up, a steady, freezing rain beginning to fall—the exact kind of weather that triggered Noah's worst nightmares.
At nine-thirty, as we sat in the car shivering and desperate, David suddenly gripped the steering wheel. “The theater.”
Before Rebecca died, she had volunteered at a small, independent community theater on the North Side. She painted elaborate scenery and had spent hours teaching a young Noah how to operate the stage lights. The theater had closed its doors two years ago, but the building remained abandoned while the city debated its renovation.
David sped through the rain-slicked streets. When we arrived, a rusted side door near the loading dock stood slightly ajar.
We crept inside. The lobby smelled powerfully of damp plaster and old velvet. Our footsteps echoed like gunshots in the cavernous dark. “Noah?” David called out.
No answer.
Then, we saw it. A single, pale stage light was illuminated beyond the main auditorium doors.
We pushed through the double doors. Noah sat at the very edge of the wooden stage, his legs dangling into the orchestra pit. Beside him on the stage floor sat Rebecca’s burgundy shoes. He had taken them from the apartment before he fled.
I moved down the center aisle slowly, my heart in my throat. “How did you get inside?”
“A back window in the dressing room never locks,” Noah said, not looking up.
“You frightened us, Noah.”
“I know.”
David stayed a few rows back, leaning against a velvet chair, giving Noah space.
“I wasn't going to run away to Seattle tonight,” Noah said softly, staring at the shoes. “I just needed somewhere that didn't feel like a war zone. Aunt Rebecca used to leave these shoes right here, backstage, after her performances. I thought if I came here, I could remember what she looked like before the accident.”
His voice cracked. “I can remember the car perfectly. The glass. The blood. But I can't remember her laugh without listening to a recording. It feels like losing her twice.”
I climbed the side stairs and sat on the dusty stage beside him. “That happens with grief, honey.”
Noah looked over my shoulder at David. “Are you and Mom staying together because of me? Because I'm broken?”
“No,” David said from the darkness. “We are staying together because we love each other. But whether we survive depends on our choices, not on how fast you recover.”
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“I want us to tell the truth,” Noah pleaded, looking between us. “Even when it makes someone unhappy. And I want you to stop leaving the room every time someone says Aunt Rebecca’s name.”
I swallowed hard. “We can do that.”
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