Shock Wave. Dana Mentink

      ONE

      The floor lurched under Trey Black’s feet. Wooden planks, crippled by age and neglect, groaned like arthritic joints forced into movement. He waited one second, two.

      Another quick jolt and the old Imperial Opera House stilled again.

      The second jerk took him momentarily back to another place, to Afghanistan, to the smell of sun-scorched earth and gun oil, sweat and the tangible scent of fear.

      He stood motionless between a row of chairs looking toward the stage, eyes scanning the ghostly fly tower with its combination of counterweights and pulleys, the rusty overhead lighting, the dusty floorboards, worn and marred. It hadn’t been his imagination—a few of the fly tower ropes still quivered from the sudden movement.

      His mind knew he was not in Afghanistan anymore, but his body had not learned the lesson. He rubbed the back of his neck and ran a palm over his hair, the wild thatch of it still an odd contrast to the buzz cut he’d had until he’d left the army behind a month ago.

      It was not enemy fire.

      Not the impact from a mortar volley.

      The truth materialized.

      Earthquake.

      Small, probably not more than a 2.5, one of a number of quakes that had rumbled through the city in the past twenty-four hours. He’d heard some scientist on a morning talk show explaining that the miniquakes were the earth’s way of releasing tension gradually as the tectonic plates ground together. Yet another scientist suggested the shakers could be warnings that the “big one” was coming.

      Earthquakes were like people, he figured. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if they were friendlies or enemies until it was too late. He shook away the thoughts and called softly into the darkness.

      “Wally?” His voice echoed, bouncing in and out of the dark stalls, the mazelike warren of dressing rooms, rehearsal areas and the cavernous empty stage. It was a terrible place for a dog, but Trey had agreed to come check on the little critter when he was done for the evening as a favor to the caretaker. “Wally?” he said again, louder.

      He caught the faintest sound, the barest squeak of a floorboard from the royal box, the ornate enclosure at the middle of the lowest tier of seating and the spot with the best sight lines to the stage. Long ago it would have been the place reserved for royalty or VIPs out for a night at the Imperial. Now, on a Sunday night, decades after the theater offered up its last real opera, it was tomblike.

      He listened, body taut. The sound didn’t come from the rascally dog. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

      Nor did he understand why he took cover behind the proscenium and began a surreptitious creep toward the noise.

      No reason to suspect it was anything dangerous.

      This was San Francisco, not a war zone, and he was in an empty opera house. More likely his unease was paranoia borne of long months dodging sniper bullets or worrying that a careless moment on his part would result in death.

      Like the journalist embedded with their unit.

      The memory bit at him before he could steel his mind against it.

      He recalled the look on Sage Harrington’s face when she saw her colleague hit by sniper fire. Her camera fell to the ground and those eyes, those ice-blue eyes, locked on his, soldering the two of them together in her white-hot grief. She blamed him, it was clearly written on her face.

      Blamed him, when they never should have been there in the first place. He felt the burn of anger at Sage for her reckless behavior, and himself, for the stubborn way his heart still kicked up at the thought of her.

      Snap out of it, Trey. Sage has to live with her decisions and you’ve got to live with yours.

      His mind circled the facts again.

      Empty opera house, closed to the public for decades.

      Whoever it was making the noise was a trespasser.

      Find Wally.

      Get out of the Imperial and go home.

      He shouldered his backpack, heavy with the tools he’d been using to try to repair and replace the rotting wood of the lobby floor. A whisper echoed over to him, a hushed voice belonging to someone who shouldn’t be there. A vagrant maybe, who had forced their way through the boarded-up windows perhaps, looking to escape the clinging October chill. He could still call it quits, look for Wally on his way out. It wasn’t his problem. Not his responsibility. No reason to feel like he had to protect Mr. Long’s investment from intruders. No reason to stay.

      He took a deep breath and crept farther into the darkness, heading for the stairs that would take him to the royal box.

      * * *

      The chilled air of the opera house made Sage Harrington’s skin prickle all over. Her own hands looked pale and ghostly in the meager light from her lantern, shaking slightly from the temblor she’d just felt and the oppressive blackness. It was ridiculous, really. Stupid certainly, to follow Antonia inside. Not the first time she’d behaved stupidly.

      Something about Antonia Verde pricked Sage’s instincts. The woman knew the truth about Sage’s cousin Barbara, she was sure, something Barbara’s husband, Derick, wasn’t telling. Then again the whole situation might just be the product of Sage’s overactive imagination. Barbara might very well be in Santa Fe like her husband claimed.

      In Santa Fe.

      Not answering the phone.

      Not returning emails.

      Nearly at full-term for her pregnancy.

      Without sending so much as a postcard to check on the renovations to her beloved opera house. Sage had seen Antonia do something inexplicable—pick up a picture of Barbara from the glass side table and hide it under her shirt before sneaking out of the Longs’ house.

      The cold feeling deep in her stomach returned. Something had happened to Barbara, and Antonia had some information that would help Sage find the truth. She’d grudgingly agreed to meet Sage at the Imperial and talk. Why in the world had they agreed to meet here?

      Toughen up, Sage. She would complete her mission, as a man from her past would say, and she found she could not hold back the feelings.

      How many times had she thought about Trey Black? Wondered how things would have been different if they’d gotten to know each other somewhere else instead of the hills of northeastern Afghanistan? It seemed surreal, now, that only a year ago she was snapping pictures for a top-selling news magazine, simultaneously afraid for

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