Song: We Must Be Killers by Mikky Ekko
***
I huddle quietly in the corner of the girl's dressing room, hoping to stay out of sight for the remainder of the night. Clutching my clipboard tightly to my chest, the nagging concern that maybe that Wesley boy did recognize me hangs heavy in my mind.
The dressing room is empty and everything is eerily silent. I assume that everyone is currently on stage and allow myself to relax a little, sinking back further against the wall.
Although I do think that Mitchell refrained from telling me the whole truth about Wesley, I trust that he's not trying to get me killed. He needs me to get his family back, after all - he said so himself. And I truly believe that as long as I maintain my innocent image, he won't turn me in. He just doesn't seem to have it in him. Still, I find myself holding my tongue around him. He is a stranger, after all.
I hear chatter coming my way, so I quickly stand and leave the dressing room. I duck my head down as I leave and randomly scribble on my clipboard, hoping to not arouse any further suspicion. I can feel a few people stare at me for a moment and I hold my breath each time; thankfully, nobody stops me for anything. Good grief, am I really gonna have to do this all weekend? I ask myself.
Someone bumps my shoulder rather hard and I trip, my clipboard clattering to the floor. "Sorry," the person says, and I immediately recognize the voice as a familiar one. "I'm Wesley, by the way."
"Brooklyn. And, thanks," I mutter as I flip my hair out of my face, immediately recognizing the journalist kid. Wesley hands me my clipboard. I take the clipboard, doing my best to try and exit the conversation. Just as I begin to step away, however, Wesley places his hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, can we talk?" he asks, and I immediately begin to panic.
I dart my eyes back and forth, glancing around at my surroundings. "About what?" I ask, pulling my clipboard in tight against my chest.
Wesley peers behind him and back to me. "I think we need to go somewhere more private," he whispers.
I tilt my chin upward slightly. "I think not," I insist. "Whatever you have to say, you can say right here."
"No, I really can't," he hisses. "We have bows in about five minutes and I need to tell you something before Mitchell gets back, something that I don't necessarily want others to hear," he says, leaning in closer.
I try to ignore the fact that he smells like tuna and raw onions. "What about Mitchell?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
Wesley shuffles nervously in place. "He's out to get you, Brooklyn. He was telling me all about it in the dressing room," he says, then sighs. "I'm a Hunter, just like him."
I take a step back. "He's not out to get me," I argue pathetically.
"You gotta trust me. He was telling me his whole elaborate scheme, how he's gonna kill you in your sleep and turn your body in," Wesley says, quite hurriedly. "He plays off the nice-guy image really well but deep down, he's a psychopath," he adds, whispering.
"I don't believe you," I huff. "I've known him for a long time," I lie, crossing my arms.
Wesley shoves a hand in his pocket as he says, "No, you haven't known him a long time. Don't try and pull that shit on me," he threatens. He pulls a small, white book from his pocket and flips it open. Inside are headshots of people and small profiles, several of which have large, red x's through them. His thumb covers several areas of writing on the first page.
