a few days ago. His daughter—who manages his career, helps design his act, and assists him onstage—accepted the invitation on his behalf, but didn’t tell him. She tricked him into coming to Hollywood. Dante’s daughter knew he needed a second chance, but she also knew he would refuse the opportunity when it came.”
I could feel each bead of sweat as it evaporated off my rapidly warming scalp.
“When Dante had his heart attack, Kellar and I set about rescheduling the show to work around his absence—not an easy task in the eleventh hour. But then a young woman showed up and saved our asses.” Laughter in the audience. “Tonight, it is my privilege to present our youngest performer. But before she takes the stage, let’s watch the performance that, a decade ago, almost ended her father’s career.”
As Flynn walked offstage, the lights went out, and a giant projection screen descended from the rafters.
Clemente leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Places,” he said.
Shielded by the huge screen, I walked onto the stage.
CHAPTER 33
I WATCHED MY FATHER’S FAILURE play out on a cineplex-sized projection screen. And though I was hidden from their view, I felt three thousand pairs of eyes on me, watching me watch him. I was out of my body, head buzzing, nerves crackling. I took in every sound, every image dancing on-screen—but I remembered only flashes:
Craig Rogan standing before the red curtain on his talk-show soundstage.
The massive tank. The creak of steel cables.
Then my breath rushed out of me as I watched my mother enter the frame. She was beautiful—dark hair hanging down her back as she crossed the stage with a grace I didn’t inherit. She smiled, and there was no sign of turmoil in her deep brown eyes. No hint of the darkness to come. For the first time, I wondered whether she was manic when it happened, or whether she was in the gray.
The click as she pulled the lever.
The splash as the truck hit the water.
Dad, thrashing beneath the surface, wrestling with the ropes that held him. The thump as he kicked desperately against the door of the truck.
A gasp from the audience—both on-screen and in the theater—as he ceased struggling and floated, suspended, like a dead goldfish.
Stagehands rushing the tank. Throwing the emergency release. Water gushing from the dump hatches, flowing over the apron and into the audience.
Screams as the crowd rushed for the exits.
Men rolling my father onto his side as he coughed and sputtered. His suit soaked and dripping.
The stage going black.
The projected image faded, and for a moment I was in total darkness. Overhead, I heard the hum of the motor drawing the screen up into the rafters.
Then—sudden as a flash of lightning—a spotlight struck out from the back of the auditorium, bathing my body in hot white light.
I closed my eyes and pictured the stage as if I were watching from the back of the house. In the bright oval cast by the spotlight, my shadow stretched out behind me, long and crisp and dark.
It was showtime.
Tepid applause rises from the orchestra section, swelling into an ovation as it rolls toward the balcony. The girl bows.
Lights come on upstage, revealing a massive Plexiglas tank. Stagehands approach and lean a shining aluminum ladder against the wall of the tank. The girl climbs to the top, reaches in, and flings a handful of water over the side. Droplets sparkle in the spotlight, then hit the stage like rain.
The house lights go up. The girl selects a volunteer from the fifth row, a middle-aged woman who will look suitably reliable to the skeptical crowd. The woman mounts the steps and circles the tank, inspecting it. When she seems satisfied that no trickery is in play, she returns to her seat.
The girl selects a second volunteer, a firefighter type with bulging arms and a movie-star smile. She offers him not the traditional hank of cotton rope, but two zip ties, the kind used by law enforcement. The man fastens one tie around her wrists, pulling it tight with a decisive zip. When he binds her ankles, she flinches. The man returns to his seat.
Now the music starts; not the dramatic swell of Richard Strauss, but a subharmonic boom like a distant explosion. The slow tick of a heavy hi-hat. A hypnotic bass-guitar riff, a tinkling of piano keys, and an urgent, smoky voice, singing about falling.
This is not her father’s score. This is not her father’s trick.