Liam

Saturday was supposed to be Liam's day off. In reality, it was her day off from listening to Hill's griping, which made it the perfect day to look around the theater again and ponder the case in peace. When Liam had dreamed of being a detective, she thought her life would be action-packed. In reality, most of her time was spent doing paperwork and staring quietly at puzzle pieces until she discovered a way to fit them together. She couldn't just turn her brain off on nights and weekends, so most evenings she had to pop an ibuprofen to dull the thumping pulse of over-exertion.

The entrance to the theater was properly locked this time, and Liam used the key Elaine Li had provided to let herself in. The only person present in the lobby was the security guard. After the most recent incidents, the company buying the property had decided they couldn't afford the liability and hired a private security contractor to keep an eye on the building. Liam flashed her badge at the man and he acknowledged her with a nod, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"How many of you do they have on this case?" He asked, "And on a Saturday, too."

Liam's brow furrowed, "Is my partner here?"

"No, ma'am," he said, nodding toward the auditorium, "a couple of G-men."

Her furrowed brow dropped, and she straightened, prepared to unleash hell. She'd refrained from reporting these men last night when she ran their badge numbers and nothing came back, because she knew their type, and while para-investigation wannabes were annoying, they were seldom dangerous or a concern. However, she'd resolved that if they crossed her path again, she wouldn't be so gracious a second time. She marched into the theater and saw them loitering on stage, inspecting the scenery and curtains.

"Excuse me," she called out, walking down the aisle. The acoustics of the theater echoed and confirmed her authority.

"Detective Sinclair," the one in the leather jacket, Dean, greeted with a put-upon smile. They hadn't even bothered to wear their suits this time, "we were just-"

"Cut the shit," Liam said, arriving at the foot of the stage and looking up at them with arms crossed, "I could take you to the station right now. Three years. That's what you get for impersonating a federal agent."

Dean feigned offense, but when his partner - Alex? - shook his head as if to say 'it's over,' he sighed. "You could? Does that mean you're not?"

"I haven't decided yet," Liam replied honestly, her shrewd eyes studying them. Mostly, she was relieved that they weren't actually FBI and weren't here to take away her case. Her eyes narrowed further, and her head cocked to the side as she enjoyed the feeling of holding their fate in her hands. She decided the power trip would be more effective if she weren't craning her neck to look up at them, so she boosted herself onto the stage, ignoring the hand Dean offered her half-heartedly. She was glad she hadn't bothered to dress up in her stiff work clothes today. She brushed off her pants as she stood and then quickly resumed her power stance, arms crossed, "why don't you tell me what the goal is here?"

The men exchanged a look.

"Too hard?" Liam asked, "Then how about we start with your real names?"

"I'm Sam," the taller one confessed after a moment. Liam nodded, her eyes flicking to his partner.

"Dean," he insisted, "my name is Dean."

"If you say so," Liam replied, "now what are you doing here?"

"We're here because we want to help," Sam told her, "there's more going on here than the police want to believe. I think you know that, otherwise you wouldn't be spending so much time on it."

"Help how?"

"You wouldn't understand if we told you," Dean replied.

One of Liam's eyebrows arched, "Let's see if I can muster enough brain power to venture a guess. You two are deadbeat travelers with no jobs who scam your way into serious investigations, because you've watched the Blair Witch Project too many times."

"That's not…" Sam said, his lips pursing, "well, that's...not entirely wrong, but we have years of experience with this stuff. You don't know what you're dealing with here."

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm dealing with," Liam said, "it's a ghost."

Dean's mouth fell open and then closed again, and he and Sam exchanged a surprised look.

"You know that?" Sam said, his tone unsure.

"Of course," Liam said, shrugging, "I've known since the other day when I slipped in a puddle of pea soup."

Sam's lips pursed again, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Okay," Dean said with an irritated nod, his lower jaw jutting out, "you cops never fail to be assholes, huh."

"Years of training," Liam said, "now, here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna leave this theater, and you aren't going to approach anyone else even tangentially related to it. And I won't throw you in jail. Sound like a deal?"

"With all due respect," Sam said, "a lot of detectives have said the same thing, and they always wind up regretting it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Not a threat. A warning," Dean said, his expression turning dark, "this theater is the threat. You can't handle it on your own."

Liam looked between them, stone-faced, and they could see that she wasn't going to budge. Sam sighed in defeat, and they hopped down from the stage.

"You have our number," Dean reminded her as they walked up the aisle toward the exit.

"You're damn right I do," Liam muttered to herself. She grabbed her attaché and pulled out the stack of files she'd brought, sitting down cross-legged on the stage and spreading them out in front of her. She forced herself not to look over her shoulder at the spot where, just yesterday, she had heard the crunch of Arnie Davis' bones giving way.

She had brought along plenty of work to accompany her during this unofficial stakeout. The incidents seemed to be coming closer together now, and she wanted to see if she could catch anyone creeping around the theater during the usual downtime. Liam turned her head from side to side, stretching the tendons in her neck. It would be a long afternoon.

When Liam had assumed the afternoon would be long, she hadn't even taken Bill into consideration. The security guard, who had quickly noticed that she wasn't just popping in temporarily, had ventured into the theater and settled in the front row of seats. Bill meant well, and Liam knew that he must be bored out of his mind at this post, desiring human contact.

To be blunt, though, he was talking her ear off. She had long ago given up any possibility of doing anything but mindless busy work. Every time she tried to wander off into her own mind and make deductions about the case, he was yanking her back with a question about the weather, or where she wanted her tax money to go, or what her parents do for a living.

"What time did you say your shift is over?" Liam asked as casually as she could.

"Six," Bill said, "just in time to get home for dinner. Now, back at my old job in the paint factory, if you told me I could get off at six, I'd say you're crazy."

"You know," Liam interjected, "I'll be here until at least 6:30. You could take off if you want. Surprise those grandkids."

"Oh no, I couldn't," Bill said, though his eyebrows slid north as if he was considering it, "I mean, if you wouldn't care to keep an eye on the place…"

"It's seriously no problem," Liam replied.

"Well, you are a cop," He said, "I'm sure it's fine."

"Absolutely," Liam said with a smile, eager to be alone.

"You're alright, detective," he said with an appreciative nod, "Have a good weekend."

"Thank you, you too. Take care of yourself."

When Liam had watched Bill disappear into the lobby and was confident he would not be returning, she sighed heavily and rolled her spine until she was laying flat on the hardwood floor. She massaged her forehead and eyes, pressing on her eyelids until shapes began to spring across her vision. Blaire would have something to say when she found out that Liam had spent so much of her day off sitting in this theater, working. She pulled her hands away from her eyes and stiffened as she saw the shadows above her shifting. High above the stage, the catwalk looked like it was swinging back and forth, so slowly, so imperceptibly that Liam was certain it was a trick of the eyes. Still, she began to feel unsettled. She sat up slowly, placing a clammy, cold hand to her face, which felt flushed. She must have been dizzy when she saw the catwalk moving. Her first instinct told her that she was getting sick, but the word sick didn't quite sit right as a descriptor of what was happening to her body.

"Damn it," she whispered, releasing a controlled breath as a wave of queasiness washed over her. She shifted onto her knees, laying her hands against her thighs to stabilize herself. She must have eaten something bad. No, she hadn't eaten. That was the problem. She sat there for a minute or two, trying to bring her body back under the tight grip of her control. Something backstage clanged, and she jumped to her feet, her symptoms all but forgotten. In the next instant, her pistol was freed from its holster and in her hands. The sound of the safety clicking off felt deafening in the surrounding stillness. Liam paced slowly around the stage, turning carefully. There was nowhere that her back wasn't exposed, and for the first time all week, she wished that her partner was at her side.

"Who's there?" She called out, using the barking authoritative tone that Blaire liked to call her "cop voice." She focused her attention on the stage, stepping forward to get a look behind the curtains. She spared another glance at the catwalk. She couldn't tell if it was still swinging.

Liam exhaled through pursed lips and forced her shoulders to relax. One noise was reason enough to be hypervigilant, given the circumstances, but did not mean that somebody was inside the theater with her. Just as she had convinced herself to believe this, a scraping sound ensued behind her. Liam whirled around. The sinews of her arms were taut as bowstrings as she held her gun aloft, searching for a target. She took a couple of slow, careful steps forward, glancing to her left and right at the dark spaces behind the curtains. Her gaze flicked to the floor where one long, deep scratch was carved in the wood. She stared at it for a moment, unmoving, before turning in another precautionary circle to survey her surroundings. She and Hill had combed over every inch of this stage floor after the last two deaths. That scratch was new.

"Whoever you are, you've chosen the wrong victim this time," Liam called, "If you give it up now, you won't have to add assaulting a police officer to your rap sheet."

She was quiet for a long moment, listening for footsteps. Surely, whoever it was would attempt to run. She intended to pursue them if they did. Her threat was met with silence. Just as she was wondering if the culprit had managed to sneak away, a heavy rope fell from above, slapping her in the shoulder. She jerked away from the dangling rope and aimed her pistol high. A clunk echoed through the theater as one of the bright stage lights on the catwalk structure lit up, obscuring Liam's sight.

"I don't think you understand," Liam called up to the catwalk, now angry, "If you don't identify yourself, I will shoot you."

It was quiet as Liam counted to eight in her head. She discharged her weapon, shattering the stage light with a warning shot. She waited tensely as her eyes adjusted to the darkness engulfing the catwalk. When the shapes on the walk became clearer, Liam saw the outline of a person standing behind the light she'd shot out.

"I see you," Liam called, her lips quirking at the corners as she began to feel in control again, "Let me see your hands."

The person, whom Liam now felt certain was a woman, raised their hands.

"I want you to walk over to the ladder. Slowly." Liam instructed the woman.

"Why don't you come up here and get me?" She replied. Her voice was much lower than Liam had expected - a silky tenor that lacked expression. Liam took in a breath to respond, but in the next moment, a light came crashing to the stage, missing Liam by only a hair. She scrambled sideways, wincing as she fell hard on her elbow. She had managed to keep a hold on her gun, and fired another shot at the catwalk, this time aiming to wound the woman.

When Liam managed to climb back to her feet, she peered at the platform to find that the woman was no longer standing there. The bullet must have wounded her more than Liam had intended it to - perhaps even killed her. She ran backstage to the base of the ladder and climbed, holstering her gun hesitantly so that she could grip the rungs. Her elbow joint was still screaming. When she reached the top, she pulled herself up with her good arm and retrieved her gun, bracing it against her side to baby her hurt arm. She looked down the catwalk and froze. The woman, whom she'd expected to be lying on the grated floor, was nowhere to be found. She took a few disbelieving steps forward, leaning over the railings to see if she had jumped down to the stage below.

"What the hell…?" Liam murmured, suddenly wishing she'd had the foresight to keep her walkie on her.

Blaire

Blaire woke up to an empty apartment late the next morning. On the counter was a brief note from Liam stating that she would be at the theater for the afternoon but would be home later in the evening. A late breakfast egg sandwich fueled some early afternoon cleaning. Throughout her productive morning, Blaire's thoughts were still lingering on some of the findings from her late night research. She was struggling to keep herself preoccupied with the mundane tasks of scrubbing countertops and switching over loads of laundry.

It was mid afternoon when she threw her weight into the oversized chair in the living room with her laptop in her hands. Sparing no time to think better of it, she opened up a new window and began to search again: Can ghosts hurt people?

The results showed Blaire more forums that dove deep into personal accounts of ghosts doing anything from causing nausea to throwing objects at people's heads. She found stories that were popular like the haunted house in Amityville, New York or the Cecil Hotel in Los Angeles. One particular link gave her information about vengeful spirits and poltergeists. The results left her wondering about the ability of ghosts to cause some of the lethal damage that she had seen this last week.

She was pulled from her thoughts when her phone let out a loud chime from the kitchen. Blaire got to her feet and placed the laptop to the side, its screen idle on an article about a haunted home in England where a family had been terrorized for months. She pulled her phone off the charger and flipped it open. One message blinked on the screen: Tricia. Tricia had been one of the first nurses to tend to Arnold after his fall. She had told Blaire she would keep her posted on his progress during her upcoming days off. Blaire held her breath as she opened the message.

Arnie is stable. Woke up a few hours ago and has been in and out of it. Keeps talking about someone named Beatrice.

Blaire clicked reply and sent a quick Thank you back to Tricia before pressing 'send' on a call to Liam. The phone rang and she shifted from one foot to the other anxiously. Beatrice could be Arnie's daughter, for all Blaire knew. But she kept thinking back to those last moments with Theo Dawson as he struggled to get his message across. "She," he had said to her. A woman had pushed him.

Blaire snapped the phone shut after Liam's voicemail picked up. She was probably too engrossed in her work to pick up a call she would have assumed would be about dinner this evening. What was she going to tell her anyway? Blaire trekked back into the living room and pulled her laptop onto her lap once again. She could figure this out herself instead of bothering Liam with what could be a meaningless detail. If it was something significant, she would call her again and leave a message.

Beatrice + Monte Claire theater

Blaire was hopeful that it would lead her to nothing. Or if it was something, it would give them the name of someone involved in the sale of the theater, maybe a realtor or broker. The results that populated were far outside of what Blaire had anticipated.

Monte Claire Star Hanged

Monte Claire Death Leaves Questions Unanswered

Suicide at Local Theater Ends Starlet's Career Early

Blaire hadn't noticed herself leaning forward towards the screen. She clicked from one article to the next. Each of them featured a photo of the same theater her best friend was probably seated in at this moment. Alongside it was a photo of a beautiful young woman, no more than 20 years old, her curly hair cut bluntly at her shoulders, her lips in a serious pout. As Blaire read each article, she gathered the full story of what had become of the young woman named Beatrice Patridge.

The young actress was a local favorite and had recently caught the eye of big names in New York and Hollywood at the time. She was the lead in several plays in the last few years and a number of producers were supposed to attend the premiere of what was proclaimed to be her most memorable role yet. The night of the big show came and as the opening overture played, Beatrice hung herself from the catwalk. It took several moments for emergency personnel and stage hands to retrieve her. Her neck had broken on impact.

Blaire felt sick to her stomach. She had not known the theater she had gone to on field trips and family outings growing up had such a dark past. On the archival site she had uncovered, related articles had been listed at the bottom of the page. Of the few that it had suggested, Blaire chose the most relevant.

Local Actresses' Suicide Note Reveals Revenge Motive

Blaire pored over the article that highlighted the findings of the investigation into Beatrice's suicide. At the vanity backstage, Beatrice had left a beautifully penned letter highlighting her heartbreak. Beatrice had gotten pregnant during rehearsals of the play when she had an affair with the married director of the show. Her note revealed that the director had forced her to get an abortion, threatening to replace her in the upcoming show and all other shows, subsequently destroying Beatrice's promising career. Unable to bear the lingering depression Beatrice experienced after the abortion, she chose to take her own life.

'"I think my final performance may be my best," the young woman ended her final goodbye.' The article chillingly highlighted some of the note, which caused Blaire's skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Blaire remembered what she had read about vengeful spirits in her last search. Something about the flood of information she had found was too eerie for her to ignore. The fact that Liam was in the very spot where this horrific death took place made her stomach churn. She picked up the phone again to call her friend, not sure if she cared much about how crazy any of this would sound.

Instead of ringing, the phone went straight to voicemail. It wasn't like Liam to leave the house with a low battery. Blaire started to feel the blood rush from her hands and feet in fear. If something, anything, from what Blaire had been researching was accurate, Liam wasn't safe where she was. Blaire Cartello, an ER nurse at the height of five feet, four inches, was ill equipped to storm the theater alone to get her best friend to safety. She scrolled through her contacts to look for Liam's partner, Hill, who would have ample skills to assist Blaire in fetching Liam. His number was nowhere to be found.

"Of course." Blaire swore under her breath and got to her feet, her laptop dropped to the seat beneath her.

Thinking quickly, Blaire raced down the hallway to look for her scrubs she had thrown lazily into the hamper the evening before. After a short amount of digging, she reached into the pocket and pulled out the folded business card from Agent Rourke she had sworn she would never use.

Praying that Liam was untouched and unharmed, she was almost looking forward to the earful she would get from her for dialing up the feds to pick her up from her crime scene.

"Hello?"

"Agent Rourke?"

"Uh," the man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat. "Speaking."

"It's Blaire Cartello. The nurse who you spoke with at the hospital yesterday." She was speaking quickly.

"Oh. How can I help you?" He sounded stiff on the other end of the phone. Blaire swore she heard someone talking in the background.

"I need you to tell me why you asked about cold spots."

There was a long pause. Blaire heard a shifting on the other end and she only gave the pause a few more beats before she continued, "I've been doing a lot of research. I know that cold spots are related to ghost activity. And I need to know what the hell the FBI is doing investigating ghosts. And my friend is up in that theater right now and so help me God, if she is stuck there with some pissed off spirit, I-"

"Who is at the theater?" She was hastily cut off by Agent Rourke.

"Liam. The detective."

There wasn't a response, just a conversation away from the mouthpiece of the phone. Blaire scoffed, appalled that he was having a side conversation with someone instead of listening to her.

"Listen to me." He was much more stern when he returned to speak with her, "my partner is going to head over there right now. I need you to stay where you are. Don't go after her. You could be putting yourself in more danger."

"But if she's-" Blaire began to argue.

"I promise you everything will be fine. But you have to trust me and stay exactly where you are." He let out a huff. "I'll call you as soon as I know more, okay?"

Blaire didn't respond. She flipped the phone shut. When she opened it again, she pressed and held 1, Liam's number on speed dial. Instead of ringing, it went to voicemail again. Blaire let out a growl in frustration and ran her hands through her hair.

"Liam, you better be alright right now. I called the freaking FBI to help me track your ass down. There's something really weird going on in that theater. Get out of there as soon as you get this."

When Blaire closed the phone again, she was already halfway across the room. She slipped a pair of shoes on and grabbed her coat from the hook beside the door, all the while cursing Agent Rourke under her breath for even thinking that she was going to wait around while her friend's life was possibly on the line.