The Final Act (#4 Bestselling Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  But I’m wearing the long blue dress James picked for me for the premiere. It’s clinging to my legs, slowing me down and preventing my usual ability for speed.

  Fear is tunnelling through every limb.

  I hear the stalker’s voice echoing in the aisle behind me.

  “There’s no way out of here,” he croons. “Not this time.”

  I yank up the bottom of my dress, freeing my lower legs, but it’s still hard to run, clutching the fabric. The silken material keeps slipping from my grip, pinioning my legs, and making me stumble as I move.

  I’m sobbing with terror now as I realise, there’s only one outcome to this chase. The stalker’s going to catch me.

  How did he get out? The question is echoing around my brain. James stopped his source of money!

  The thought brings another burst of dread. James doesn’t know I’m here, and he’s no reason to think I’m in any danger. Kristy and Scarlett won’t tell him I’ve gone back to get the dress until it becomes clear I’m missing.

  That might not be for hours.

  I have to get out of this by myself.

  Hide!

  It’s my only option, and as the thought leaps into my head, the chance presents itself. I’m in the section of long Elizabethan dresses, and they’re hung long to the floor.

  In a quick manoeuvre, I skid my legs down, pulling the rest of me under the nearest large dress.

  I send a silent prayer of thanks for my dance training as I flip on my stomach and smoothly pull myself back and out of view.

  The thick dusty costume is now hanging over me, but there’s a couple of inches which are now high off the floor.

  I’m just about to tug it down fully, when a pair of soft grey shoes tread directly into my eye line. Every nerve in my body tenses.

  It’s him.

  My heart is in my mouth as the shoes take a few steps away. Then slowly, they tread back again.

  Don’t look down! I pray. If the stalker’s gaze drops to the floor, he’ll see the costume has been disturbed.

  “There’s no way out of here, little dancer,” calls the stalker.

  I stay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. He must think I’m somewhere else in the department.

  “I’m going to find you,” he says, “and I’m going to take away your fame, drop by drop.”

  He pauses, apparently savouring this image. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I’m willing every part of myself not to move.

  Don’t look down, don’t look down. I repeat the mantra in my head, sending up a jumble of heartfelt prayers. Please, don’t let him look down.

  “I know everything about you,” he continues. “I knew you’d come running here for your precious dress. One phone call was all it took to have it sent here instead of the premiere.”

  He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for a response.

  “I know everything about James Berkeley too,” he continues. “And when he sees what I’ve done to you, I’ll have his fame as well as yours. All of it.”

  I screw my eyes tight shut, forcing myself not to imagine James finding my body.

  He’s just trying to get in your head, Issy, I remind myself. Stay strong.

  My hands are throbbing. And I realise suddenly that my fists are balled up so tight, my fingernails have cut deep into my palms.

  He only needs to glance down.

  For a moment, it seems as though he’s about to do just that.

  Then the soft grey shoes pad silently away.

  I let out the slowest of terrified breaths.

  He’s leaving!

  I swallow, though my mouth is dry, trying to decide the best course of action.

  Can I risk creeping out now?

  Logically, I know the best thing to do would be to wait. But every muscle in my body is screaming to run.

  I force myself perfectly still, plotting my escape. Surely there must be a fire exit in a warehouse this large?

  The Vespa. My moped is still outside. If I could only get to it. Then I remember.

  Dammit! The keys!

  The keys are in the pocket of my print dress. Which is on the floor near the exit. I’m guessing the stalker is smart enough to head back to that part of the warehouse. Making sure I don’t get away.

  I’m trying to remember if there’s a fire door when I hear a splashing sound. My whole body freezes.

  What’s happening?

  It sounds like water is being thrown around the floor, a few aisles away from where I’m hiding. Then the smell hits my nostrils.

  Petrol!

  I hear, before I see, the flames. A great gasp reverberates through the costume department as the building sucks in air to feed the fire.

  No! He’s burning me out!

  Thick smoke is rolling across the warehouse now. It hits my nose in an acrid wave.

  I hold my breath, keeping my lungs tight, and forcing away the cough which threatens to echo out. Desperately, I crawl out from under the costume skirts, trying to remember the best course of action in fire.

  Stay low. Crawl. Don’t let the smoke get in your lungs.

  I can’t see any flames yet, or feel any heat. So I’m hoping the fire hasn’t yet caught on a large scale. But I can smell that petrol is all around.

  I’m dizzy with the smoke and terror, and it’s hard to think. But I’m aware enough to know that the stalker must assume I’d make a run for the door.

  He’ll be waiting for me. Outside. He’ll know I’ll come running.

  I’m coughing now, shielding my face with my hand. The smoke is making me weak and groggy. I can’t risk hunting for another exit. It’s too risky in this vast labyrinth.

  My only chance is to head back the way I came.

  I’m going to run straight into his clutches. But I can’t stay here.

  Smoke is in my eyes. But my blurry vision catches the shapes to the left of me. I’m in a props aisle. Could there be something to help me?

  Guns? I rule that out as useless. The stalker would know any gun I held would be fake. A knife then? Something sharp?

  I stand shakily, making a burst of effort to overcome the smoke. Immediately, my face is hit by a thicker wave of cloying smoke, and I choke right down to my stomach.

  I lean on a waist height shelf, trying not to fall, and scan for something to use as a weapon. But it’s useless. My eyes are watering too much too see properly. With the smoke choking me, I can’t think straight.

  Coughing, I drop back down. And then I see it. The glint of an arrow.

  It’s not much, but I grab it gratefully. At least now I have something to defend myself.

  Gripping the arrow, I crawl on trying to retrace my steps. The maze-like costume department is closing all around me, and I head away from the smoke, realising this might not be the best course of action.

  Which way is the exit?

  I’m lost now, and desperate. My situation rings hopelessly around me. Then I see a familiar pattern.

  My print dress!

  I limp towards it on all fours. I took the dress off right near the entrance. My hand grasps the fabric, and the shape of the key fits my palm. It’s not much, but this tiny victory fills me with new hope.

  I’ve got the key. If I can get to the Vespa, I can drive it. I can drive away.

  But I have to get to it first. And I know the stalker must be waiting right outside.

  I can see the doorway ahead now, but there’s no room left in my lungs to take a breath. Steeling myself, I try to stand, stagger, and grab at a clothes rail. Hangers scatter, but I manage to steady myself, fixing my watery gaze on the door.

  This is it, Issy.

  I don’t have much of a plan, besides running as fast as I can. But I don’t count on just how much the smoke has slowed me up. I charge at the door, taking step after blundering step, and break through into the concrete parking lot outside.

  At first all I can think of is taking a heaving breath of cool fresh air. And then I realise, I can’t see
the stalker.

  Is he still inside?

  Not caring, I take a few tripping steps, replenishing my lungs.

  And then the attack comes from the side, at a force I’d never expected. The stalker comes at me with a rugby tackle, throwing me bodily to the floor.

  I feel my hip crack against the concrete ground, and cry out in pain as my legs flip out from under me.

  The stalker lands heavily on top of me, pinning me to the ground. His cold eyes are level with mine, and his mouth is twisted in a humourless smile.

  My hand jerks up on reflex, holding the arrow, and I feel the top sink deep into his thigh.

  The stalker’s face jerks in horror, and his mouth opens. Seizing my chance, I twist out from under him, stagger to my feet, and run.

  I can see the Vespa.

  The Vespa. I can get to it!

  Behind me, I hear the stalker get to his feet. But I’m only a few strides away now.

  Gasping with relief, I grab the handlebars and thrust the key into the ignition.

  But the usual growl of the motor starting doesn’t sound.

  Work! I will the engine. Work!

  But the engine on the bike stutters and fails.

  And then I realise where the stalker got his petrol from. The fuel cable has been cut, and the last few drops of gas are puddling on the ground.

  The bike has been sabotaged.

  I turn to see the stalker standing over me, a triumphant grin on his face.

  He grabs my neck, and I cry out in pain.

  The grin becomes wider. “I like that sound,” he whispers.

  A trail of blood is snaking down his thigh, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  My gaze drops to his hand, and he’s holding a knife.

  I twist away, trying to free myself from his steely grip. But he moves his arm up, holding the blade steadily against my throat.

  I freeze, feeling the sharp metal bite against me.

  “One wrong move,” he says in a sing-song tone. “And I’ll bleed you out right here.”

  I stay perfectly still, my eyes trained desperately on his.

  “But I’d rather not do that,” he adds, removing the knife from my throat and pulling out a gun. “I’d rather take my time.”

  Chapter 35

  The stalker leads me deeper into the studio complex, through the fake town of Birchville and to the forest beyond.

  He’s bound my hands and secured a rope around my middle, like a leash. Which he uses to pull me along behind him.

  The further we go into the set, the deeper my despair tightens.

  No one will ever find us here.

  When we reach the forest, he ties me firmly to one of the large fibreglass trees, yanking the ropes so tight, they cut off the blood supply.

  I try not to wince, but my face twitches, and the stalker’s eyes light up.

  “I’ve been waiting for this,” he says. “For so long. I don’t want it to be over quickly.”

  He steps away, considering me.

  “I know all about you,” he says, holding up the knife and examining the blade. “Isabella Green.”

  The sound of him saying my name makes me flinch.

  “I know about your Spanish Mami,” he says, “and your dead father.”

  I feel my breath constrict, and see his eyes light up again.

  “I know you struggled as the poorest student in your drama school,” he continues silkily. “And I know your aunt and uncle gave you a place to stay while you studied.”

  He moves close, leaning in so his face is level with mine.

  “I know everything,” he says. “And I’m going to take everything from you.”

  Something about the conceit in his voice charges me with unexpected anger.

  “So you’ve researched my life,” I spit, “so what? That doesn’t give you any more power over me than a gutter journalist.”

  His face registers surprise.

  “Oh, but it does,” he says softly. “I know everything about you. And you know nothing about me.”

  “You think you can frighten me,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. “Like you did to Emilia.”

  “That stupid weak girl,” he scoffs. “She was hardly worth the challenge of her capture.”

  “That stupid weak girl talked,” I say, taking a risk on a bluff. “She told me everything.”

  His face looks uncertain now.

  “Everything,” I add, pressing my advantage. “About who you are. So you don’t have power over me. Because you can’t even make a stupid weak girl stay silent.”

  The stalker pulls back a little. Then his face sets in a sneer.

  “You’re bluffing,” he says. “You don’t know the first thing about me. If you did, your precious James would have cut off my money.” He grins. “I couldn’t have bribed the guard to let me escape.”

  I open my mouth and shut it again.

  How did he escape? The mystery of it is swirling in my mind. Just at this moment, the answer seems more tantalisingly close than ever.

  Think Issy. Think what you know.

  The stalker’s face shifts back to its former arrogance.

  “You can try to act brave,” he says. “But once I get started, you’ll soon drop the performance.”

  He moves the knife to just below my eye.

  “I’m going to start with your face,” he decides. His lips twist in a repulsive smile. “Isabella Green. We’re going to find out what you’re really made of.”

  Fear is coursing through me. But the facts are hammering through my brain as well. The whole case of the Lipstick Stalker is flashing before me.

  It wasn’t Lord Berkeley making the payments. So who was it?

  For some reason, Emilia’s quiet voice comes back to me. Like a ghostly whisper.

  “I don’t have any family. I’m all alone here.”

  Family. Family. Why does that suddenly seem important?

  The stalker had no identity. No family.

  Like an enigma, that’s what they said.

  What sort of person has no records of them at all? It’s a question I’ve thought about over and over, and never got an answer to.

  But the stalker’s terrifying proximity seems to have forced new synapses together, and suddenly, something is striking me as obvious.

  The stalker must have been out of society for a long time. Perhaps until very recently. And he’d been profiling James. Studying Berkeley Studios.

  Then, just like that, I’m sure.

  “But I do know about you,” I say, fixing my eyes on the stalker. “I know all about you. I know exactly who you are.”

  The stalker’s face twitches.

  “You’re lying,” he says, considering my face.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not lying. I do know you. We thought you were locked up in a mental asylum. You’re Ben Gracey’s older brother.”

  Chapter 36

  Everything about the stalker’s firm stance seems to shrink away. And for a sudden moment, his face is uncertain.

  “We thought it was Lord Berkeley giving you money,” I say. “But it was Ben. He must have given you cheques made out by James. That’s why your money was in the Berkeley name.”

  The stalker’s face twitches, and I know I’ve guessed right.

  “James was giving money to Ben Gracey. To help his family,” I add. “That was you.”

  It all fits into place now.

  “Did Ben know?” I ask. “Did Ben know what the money was being used for?”

  Somehow, this is important to me. I don’t like Ben. But I don’t want to believe he would be colluding with a psychopath to hurt me. Not even if the psychopath was his own brother.

  The stalker shakes his head, his eyes venomous.

  “Ben doesn’t care,” he says. “Anymore than the rest of them.” He spits this last part. “Ben doesn’t even know I’ve been released from the asylum. He sends his guilt money cheques, and they are forwarded to my lawyer.”

  He
smiles. “That way, I’m untraceable.” The stalker seems pleased at this. “Even your clever James Berkeley, with all his minions, isn’t allowed to pry into my legal defence,” he adds.

  I let this slide around my brain, putting the pieces together.

  “You’re angry at James?” I guess.

  “He was my only chance after they locked me away,” hisses the stalker. “I always knew I was destined for fame. Ben told me about my new stepbrother. James Berkeley was my chance for greatness.”

  His expression quivers a little, and his eyes rise up, as if considering some distant dream.

  “And you think James betrayed you?” I say, putting the pieces together.

  Ben’s older brother. In a mental asylum as a teenager. He must have had plenty of time to develop an obsession with his absent stepbrother, and his successful movie business.

  “James did betray me,” says the stalker. He leans closer, and the mania is firmly back in his eyes. “He’s the reason I wasn’t accepted into the Berkeley family. But now I’ve found my own way of becoming famous. And I plan to take James’s fame for myself. Starting with you.”

  He raises the knife, ready to bring it down on my face. And I close my eyes, waiting for the blow.

  But it never comes.

  I open my eyes fractionally, just in time to see the stalker’s face whipping backwards with an expression of horror.

  Then the stalker is a few feet away from me, writhing on the ground. He shifts, and then I see a familiar person pinning him down.

  James!

  The stalker is screaming, writhing and clawing.

  But he’s no match for James Berkeley.

  Chapter 37

  “James!” I’m gasping in shock.

  He looks up at me, relief flooding his green eyes.

  “Issy! Are you ok?”

  I nod, and beneath him, the stalker makes another strangled cry.

  “I’ve got him!” shouts James, returning his attention to restraint. “We’re over here!”

  There are more shouts, and within moments, security guards have bounded into the forest clearing. They fall on the stalker and secure handcuffs to his wrists, and he shouts and struggles.

  James rushes over to me, tugging at the ropes as his men drag the stalker away.