Six months prior.

It was the most cut and dry case Detective Ledford had seen in a while. While that made his job easier, it didn't make what had transpired at the crime scene any less grisly. Ledford had seen it before the paramedics had covered the body of Leo Curtis and taken it away. The late investigative journalist had been stabbed in the neck. A jugular vein had been punctured, and there was a wide pool of bright, thick blood where Leo had been found. But as horrid as it was, what he had been trying to do right before his death was worse.

When Ledford and the police had arrived at the back alley of the bar, there was one other person at the scene. This one was still alive, sobbing hysterically and covered in both her and the victim's blood. Cuts from a knife laced her forearms. There was a deep one slashed across her collarbones. Her dress was torn to hell. It didn't take a detective to know what had transpired in that alley.

It was just as cut and dry in court. Damning was the evidence against the deceased—there were traces of his fingerprints underneath the woman's on the knife handle, implying that he had held it first. The woman's attorney claimed perfect self-defense, and it stood. The jury had already decided the verdict even before the prosecutor ended her opening statement. In the end, the woman was acquitted of any charges.

Ledford didn't stick around for the rest of the legal proceedings. The evidence he provided had been used, and the case was behind him. And in Krimson City, there was always something that needed a homicide detective's attention.

Unexpectedly, someone approached Ledford shortly after the court session's close. It was a stocky man claiming to be the woman's manager. Apparently she was a singer, musician—something like that. He asked Ledford if he and anyone else who had worked on the case could keep it as hush-hush as possible. He didn't want the press catching the scent and plastering the incident everywhere they could stick a headline. It would mar her reputation and, more importantly, her mental wellbeing. Ledford had agreed, not giving it much thought.

Celestina held onto her appreciative sigh for until she reached the backstage. The chorus of applause rang in her ears even long after it had faded. She did always love the sound—the loud, overwhelming cacophony of adoration. It was what she lived for.

On her way to the dressing room, she was stopped by Clyde, the man who had helped La Contessa shine on stage ever since she had adopted that name. He congratulated her on another brilliant performance and reminded her of the mayor's gala in three days' time. Celestina gave her manager a simple smile and a nod. On the inside, she groaned. She had almost forgotten about that dull invitation. But that was what Clyde was around for.

After the reminder, her manager let her go on her way. Celestina reached up to flip her hair back as she continued down the hall. The white gloves were plucked daintily from her hands. Celestina came to the door of her dressing room. Her fingertips had just touched the knob when a voice called out.

"M-Miss Amonte! Um… E-excuse me!"

She paused, her eyes darting over to the source of the outburst. A young girl was tentatively scooting down the hall towards her. She was young—a teenager, Celestina guessed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and the blouse she wore looked second-rate.

"You're not supposed to be back here," Celestina stated plainly, withdrawing her hand from the door to cross her arms.

"I know. I, um… I just wanted to ask—before you left—for a-an autograph."

The woman blinked. Her view of the girl very quickly shifted. "Ah…" she said softly. "Well… why don't we step inside, and I'll see what I can do?"

They stepped into the dressing room. Celestina found her eyes immediately snapping to the vanity. It was empty this time. Her lips pressed tightly together. She walked to her handbag and took out a fountain pen. "I think there's a pad in here somewhere," she said, looking around while trying not to disturb her delicately kempt hair.

"I've got this," she heard the girl say. Celestina looked back and saw a booklet being proffered to her. The girl opened it, saying, "I was thinking maybe, like, the inside cover."

Holding the pen leisurely in one hand, Celestina took the booklet. Her lashes lowered as she examined it. She realized it was a book of sheet music. Celestina turned away and set the booklet down on the vanity. As she uncapped her pen, she asked, "You are a pianist, signorina?"

"Learning," the girl admitted modestly. "Maybe… I don't know, someday be able to play on stage? Like you." Embarrassed, the girl quickly added, "I-I mean—!"

"Dream big," Celestina said as she penned a neat signature in the booklet. She closed it and held it back out. "There you go."

"Oh my god! Thank you!"

"What's your name?"

"Oh, um, Carolyn."

"Well, Carolyn, lovely meeting you. You shouldn't stick around or else a stagehand might come and shoo you out."

"Got it, and… and thank you again!"

Celestina turned away, listening to the door shut behind the girl. She glanced back down at the offensively empty vanity. The pen rolled between her fingers. Finally, her eyes snapped back up. She dropped the pen into her bag and swept up her coat. After tightening the sash around her waist, Celestina took her bag and left the dressing room. Eerily, there didn't seem to be a single soul in the hall. She took a left, heading for the theatre's back exit.

"Per favore prestami un momento, cara mia." The soft voice came from behind her, as sweet and alluring as a serenade.

Celestina stopped. She could have sworn the hallway was empty. She turned her head to the side, but didn't look behind her. In her peripheral vision, she saw the form of someone standing a few feet away. "Dipende," she replied coolly. "Valete mia tiempo?"

She was answered with a low chuckle and the sounds of his steps. Tap… tap… They came slowly. Finally giving in, Celestina turned around. Her eyebrows rose. She didn't bother to hide her thoughts as her gaze fell onto her companion.

He was dressed crisply in dark purple. His unbuttoned blazer revealed the lavender dress shirt he wore underneath. The front of his black hair, though predominately short, swept down over his face and concealed an eye. A very odd choice of style, Celestina noted, but it was still somehow very enticing.

As he approached her, he reached into his blazer. His hand reemerged with a single red rose, which he held out to her. Celestina noticed the brown leather gloves he wore. She smiled as she gently plucked it from his hand, musing, "Just one this time?" She lowered her eyes and ran her fingers down the trimmed stem. "No white paper, no gold ribbon?"

"I felt this was more personal," the man replied. "More fitting for our meeting. What a pleasure it is, Contessa."

"Celestina," she corrected slyly. Lifting her eyes, she let her wrist fall back and brushed the base of her neck with the edges of the rose's petals. She didn't miss how the man's eye flickered briefly down to watch it before meeting her gaze again. "And will my charming company offer me a name?"

"Stefano, cara mia."

"Valentini? The photographer?" She had heard of him. Very few, especially in Krimson City, hadn't ever since his infamous photo had graced the public eye. Disgust and shock had been the common reception. And although it was an unpleasant image to behold, Celestina had never joined the uproar. That the lens of a wartime photographer's camera would capture the instance of death was to be far from unexpected—as anticipated as catching a mouthful of water while in the sea.

"I'm gratified you know of me." The deep pool of his eye locked her in. Against her skin, the rose paused. "Exalted as you are. I caught the sight of a sweet young child passing by on my way here, shining as bright as a spotlight." He smiled. "Rather nice when someone appreciates your talent, is it not?"

Celestina let the corner of her mouth curl just slightly. She turned abruptly and began walking down the hall. The sound of his following steps pleased her. "So far, my dear photographer, you've been nothing but flattering. I presume there's something you want from me?" She turned her head only a small degree towards him.

"As cunning as you are beautiful," Stefano replied, hurrying past Celestina to open the door for her. He beckoned her through with a polite, "Prego." She stepped through and waited for him to join her. "I'll admit—you had me entranced from the moment I witnessed your first breathtaking performance. And since then, I have yearned for the opportunity to immortalize such elegance."

Celestina slowed. Stefano did the same, holding her in his hawk-like gaze. "A model? Me?" She gave a short, airy laugh. "I am no runway model, Stefano."

"There's no need for such modesty," her companion replied. "It is simply fact, as sure and solid as finest marble, that you are a beautiful woman. Any picture with the privilege of holding your image is a thousand times better than without. All I ask is that you grace my work as such. Well, cara mia? Don't make me beg."

Celestina smirked. "Perhaps I would like that." She almost jumped when he suddenly took her hand. Her heart hammered as he brought it up and laid a soft kiss over her knuckles. She didn't know if it was excitement or fear she felt. Whatever it was, it was wonderful.

"Per cortesia, mia Contessa." Celestina couldn't suppress her shiver. Quickly, she covered herself up with a bold smile.

"You do beg so nicely." It was as though she were worried he could hear the pounding of her heart. "Very well. When shall you have me—as your model, of course?"

"How about, hmm… Saturday."

That was the day of the mayor's gala. Celestina wasn't sure if this little impromptu photo-shoot was going to extend past the evening. Even if it didn't, there were other things to do with this charming photographer that would. She'd have to get Clyde to send an apology the mayor's way.

"Saturday," Celestina affirmed. "I'll see you then."

"I look forward to it."

She was still dazed as she stepped out onto the lit street. It was as though she had exited out of a dream. Celestina watched the road and waved a taxi down. As she climbed into the backseat, she realized she was still holding onto the rose. Quickly, Celestina tucked it into her handbag and leaned forward to give the cab driver her address. She didn't notice the poster stapled to the wooden telephone pole right outside her window.

MISSING: ABIGAIL WINTERS.