Last Act Lies

Read the opening

The auditorium smells like old velvet and anticipation. I’ve been standing backstage for forty minutes, watching the audience file in. The drama club mothers clutching their phones, ready to record. The students from school in clusters, texting during the opening scene. The older couples—grandparents, probably—settling into the uncomfortable seats with the kind of resigned patience that comes with years of school plays. It’s a Tuesday night. The turnout is better than Mr. Harrison expected. He’s been talking about the ticket sales all week, how word of mouth has been spreading, how people actually want to see this production of a Victorian murder mystery written by some obscure playwright from the 1920s. I’m not here because of the play. I’m here because Dominic asked me to watch. Because I wanted to see him on stage, knowing that the only other people who would be aware that I was watching—aware that I cared—would be the two of us. The play begins at 7:30. The lights dim in the auditorium. Backstage, the energy shifts. Mr. Harrison stops pacing. The actors stop checking their costumes. The stage manager checks her headset one last time. Dominic is in the green room, running lines with his hand in his pockets, the way he always does. He sees me watching and his eyes flicker—just for a second—with something that might be recognition. Might be affection. Definitely something that would give us away if anyone was paying attention. But no one is paying attention. That’s the gift of being invisible in plain sight. That’s what we’ve learned over three months. The first act…

The sample pages on this site continue the opening — and the full book is available in print.