That single word changed the atmosphere.
Eleanor Hayes was standing nearby in an elegant black suit.
She turned toward me.
“Who destroyed it?”
“My sister.”
I expected sympathy.
Instead, she asked a practical question.
“Was your sister authorized to be in the restricted backstage area?”
That was when something clicked in my mind.
Security cameras.
Six months earlier, a musician’s bow had been stolen backstage.
Afterward, the foundation had installed high-definition cameras throughout the dressing-room corridor.
“I invited my family to the performance,” I said. “But they weren’t authorized to enter secured areas.”
Eleanor turned toward the head of security.
“Preserve all footage.”
Applause sounded from the auditorium.
Seven minutes until I was due onstage.
Then Vanessa appeared at the far end of the hallway.
Wearing my emerald dress.
She walked toward us as though absolutely nothing had happened.
“There you are,” she said. “Mom said we should take pictures before you embarrass yourself.”
