CHAPTER 1
Grady Clairmont adjusted his wig and puffed up his gel-filled brassiere. Taking one last look in the dressing-room mirror, he puckered his lips and blew himself a kiss. “Show time, sunshine.”
As he took a step back on his four-inch heels, he wobbled, almost falling into the armoire next to him, but he caught himself just in time. The mermaid fit of the dress was tight against his thighs—so tight it was difficult to move. He’d put on a few pounds since he’d last worn it, and even though he was in desperate need of a new drag wardrobe, money was tight.
In recent months, Grady had been laid off from his waiter position at the “ghostly” Marshall House, where he was often the center of attention. As he oohed and ahhed with newlyweds, elderly couples, families, and children, the hotel guests often broke out into hysterics. Thinking back on those good times now, he realized how much he missed the laughter that had often reverberated through the atrium-style breakfast room. He’d always felt so good at the end of his workday. But those times were nothing more than distant memories now.
It had been two years since he lost his nephew, who had been an apparent victim of human trafficking. Though they could never prove a direct correlation in his nephew’s case. Grady had no doubt in his mind that trafficking was involved, and the wounds of his loss remained. If it wasn’t for the two women he’d met at the Marshall House who had previous careers in the crime-fighting industry, he wasn’t sure the ringleader would have ever been caught and imprisoned.
Grady closed his eyes and breathed, willing himself back to the present moment. He straightened the dress one last time, shifting it around his hips, and he waddled to the door. The drumroll had started, and the emcee would soon announce his drag-queen persona, Lady Grady. He tried to hype himself up to match the energy in the crowd, the music, the laughter. In truth, he just didn’t have it in him anymore. The fans were always kind, but it was becoming a blur—night after night of the same thing, often the same faces even. It had all become pointless to him. Surely there was more to life than being a … clown.
As he opened the door to step into the hallway, a white piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It seemed to have been stuck between the door and its frame.
A note from a fan, perhaps?
He’d had many in his time as a performer.
Maybe this one would cheer him up.
He unfolded the note and began to read.
Eyes wide, stay inside.
Fear, for terror is here.
The note was signed by Dr. Beetle, the root doctor down on River Street. Grady knew her, of course—she was an iconic figure in Savannah’s Historic District. But he didn’t know her that well. Not enough to exchange notes like this one, anyway. Many of the locals gossiped about the old gal, spreading rumors that she practiced hoodoo, Southern Folk magic—ideas that Grady didn’t believe in.
The note she’d left was … well, far from positive, and Grady wondered if it was a prank. Had someone else written it, someone pretending to be her? If it had been left by the doctor herself, what did she want with him? Why leave such a note?
Assuming it was nothing more than an attempt to rile him up, he crumpled the note, tossing it over his shoulder into his dressing room.
He’d just taken a step into the hall when he felt the chilling sensation of hands wrapping around his throat, pulling him backward. Given his burly physique, he bucked his assailant away with ease and spun around, fists raised.
Furious, he stared into a pair of eyes, unsettling in their emptiness.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
The reply was swift and came in the form of a knife, the blade plunging into his heart, again and again.
Confused, Grady dropped to his knees, cupping his own blood in his hands. He reached out, desperate to fend off the vicious attack, but the blows kept coming. As the hallway began to swirl around him, the emcee shouted his name.
But Grady wouldn’t be making it to the stage.
Not tonight, or any other night.
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