The man in the pink suit didn't drop his hand even after Travis showed the badge. He just held it there for a second longer, smile wide and steady, like he had all the time in the world.
"Owner," he said finally, tapping his chest lightly with two fingers before lowering his hand. "Name's Adewale Okoye. But you can call me Ade." His voice carried that smooth, slightly lilting Nigerian accent that made everything sound a little warmer than it needed to be. His eyes moved between Travis and Kate with quiet curiosity. "Now tell me, what brings the NYPD into my house this early in the day?"
Kate stepped forward just enough to take control of the space without making it obvious. She slipped her badge back into place and held his gaze. "We're looking into a few deaths connected to this theatre. We were hoping you could help us shed some light."
Adewale's smile didn't disappear, though something behind it shifted. He leaned lightly on his cane and glanced toward the stage for a moment, like he was checking something in his head. Then he looked back at them.
"Deaths," he repeated, slower this time. "That's a heavy word to bring into a place meant for art." He gave a soft chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Come. We shouldn't talk about such things in the lobby. There are too many ears."
Travis glanced around once, taking in the workers, the actors on stage, the way people pretended not to listen while clearly listening anyway. Then he nodded.
"Lead the way," he said.
Adewale turned without another word and started walking, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor with each step. Travis and Kate followed him past the rows of seats and along a side corridor that smelled faintly of dust and old fabric. The walls were lined with framed posters, some faded, some newer, all carrying names that probably meant something to someone once.
They reached a door at the end of the hallway. Adewale pushed it open and stepped inside.
"Please," he said, gesturing with his cane as he moved toward a large wooden desk. "Make yourselves comfortable."
The office felt different from the rest of the theatre. It was cleaner and more organized. Shelves held scripts, and awards were displayed neatly. A small bar sat in one corner. Sunlight came through the blinds, creating thin lines on the desk.
Kate took the chair across from him without hesitation. Travis stayed standing for a second, scanning the room, then pulled the other chair and sat down beside her.
Adewale lowered himself into his seat slowly, resting both hands on the top of his cane as he looked at them.
"So," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Let us begin. You said deaths connected to this place. Which ones?"
Kate took out the photos from her coat's inner pocket and slid one of the photos across the desk. "Harold Whitaker."
Adewale's eyes dropped to the photo. He studied it for a moment longer than necessary, then leaned back slightly.
"Technician," he said. "He was a quiet man who kept to himself. That was many years ago."
She took the second photo and placed it beside the first. "Daniel Mercer."
Adewale's fingers tapped once against the cane. A small movement, almost nothing.
"Stage manager," he said. "Very organized. Always shouting at someone, but that is the job."
Kate placed the third photo down. "Elise Carter."
For the first time, Adewale didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the picture, and the smile he had been wearing since they met softened just a fraction.
"Costume designer," he said quietly. "Very talented woman. People liked her."
Travis leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze stayed locked on Adewale.
"All three worked here," he said. "All three died under similar circumstances. Same setup, same pattern, same… theatrics."
Adewale's eyes lifted slowly back to Travis.
"You think this place is connected," he said.
"I think something happened here," Travis replied. "Something that ties all three of them together."
Adewale let out a slow breath and leaned back fully in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, then back at them. "This theatre has been here for decades," he said. "People come and go. Shows rise and fall. You will find many connections if you look hard enough."
"We're not looking for many connections," Kate said. "We're looking for one."
Adewale smiled again, though this time it was thinner.
"Then ask your questions, Detective," he said. "Let us see where they take us."
Travis tilted his head slightly, like he had been waiting for that.
"Eight years ago," he started, his tone easy but deliberate, "was there a production that involved all three of them? And I know it's been years, still, anything you can remember might just help us solve this mystery."
Adewale didn't answer right away. He reached for a glass on his desk, poured himself a small drink, then set the bottle down carefully.
"There are always productions," he said, taking a slow sip.
Kate leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit. "One that ended badly," she said.
Adewale's hand paused mid-motion.
Travis caught it.
"What was the name of the play?" he asked.
Adewale set the glass down.
For a moment, the room felt quieter than it should have been.
Then he smiled again, slower this time.
"You are asking the right questions," he said softly.
He leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk now, his eyes moving between them.
"But I wonder," he added, voice dropping just enough to carry weight, "are you ready for the answers?"
Kate didn't blink.
"Try us," she said.
Adewale held her gaze for a second longer, then let out a quiet breath, like he had just made a decision.
"There was a play," he said. "One that was never completed. We shut it down before opening night."
Travis's eyes sharpened slightly.
"Why?" he asked.
Adewale's smile faded just a little.
"Because," he said slowly, "something went wrong."
Adewale did not look away after saying it. His fingers rested flat against the desk, still now, the faint tapping from earlier gone.
He drew in a slow breath and leaned back, his gaze drifting toward one of the framed posters on the wall. It showed a dim stage under a single spotlight, a lone figure standing at the center with its face hidden in shadow.
"It was meant to be different from our usual productions," he said, his voice quieter now. "We had done drama, romance, the classics. People wanted something that stayed with them after they left the theatre. Something new." A faint smile touched his lips, though it did not fully form. "So we chose horror."
Kate shifted slightly in her chair, her attention fixed on him, while Travis remained still, watching, measuring every pause and change in tone.
Adewale rested one hand over the other on top of his cane and continued. "The script was ambitious. It was not about cheap scares. It was psychological. It played with fear, with belief, with the idea that some doors should not be opened." His fingers brushed lightly against the desk as he spoke. "The story followed a group trying to summon something they did not understand."
Travis's eyes flicked briefly toward Kate, then back to Adewale, but he stayed silent.
"Everyone loved the script," Adewale went on, his gaze lowering slightly. "Actors, crew, even the technicians. There was a sense that we were building something special." He paused, exhaling softly. "We were weeks into rehearsal when things began to feel off."
Kate leaned forward just a little. "Off in what way?"
Adewale's fingers tightened around the head of his cane. "At first, it was small things. Lights flickering when they should not. Props disappearing and turning up in places no one admitted to touching. Actors forgetting lines they had practiced for weeks. Some even got into small accidents." He gave a quiet breath, almost dismissive. "People blamed stress, long hours, nerves before opening night."
Travis gave a small nod, like he had heard that kind of explanation many times before.
Adewale's expression shifted again, the ease from earlier fading further. "Then it stopped being small."
He reached for his glass, took a slow sip, and set it down carefully before continuing. "There was a young girl in the production. Thirteen years old. Her name was Amara." His voice softened without effort. "She was a part of the main cast. Her role was symbolic, tied to the ritual scenes. Quiet child. Always watching and paying attention, like she understood more than she let on."
Kate's grip tightened slightly against the arm of her chair.
"The night it happened," Adewale continued, his eyes lowering for a moment, "we were running a full rehearsal. Final blocking, lighting, everything set exactly as they would be on opening night. The stage had been prepared completely. Candles, symbols, the full arrangement."
Travis leaned forward now. "Walk us through it."
Adewale nodded once, as though he had expected that.
"The scene placed Amara at the center of the circle while the others performed around her. Every movement had been choreographed, every line timed precisely." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "At some point, something went wrong."
Kate's voice sharpened. "What kind of wrong?"
Adewale exhaled slowly. "She collapsed."
For a moment, the room fell quiet.
"At first, everyone thought she had missed a cue," he continued. "But when she didn't respond, one of the actors checked her, but…" He stopped briefly, swallowing before finishing. "She wasn't breathing."
Kate leaned in further. "What did the autopsy show?"
"Cardiac arrest," Adewale replied, the words flat now. "She had no medical condition and there was no foul play. A healthy child, they said."
Travis's eyes narrowed slightly. "Same as the others."
Adewale gave a slow nod. "Yes."
The weight of that answer settled between them.
Kate glanced down at the photos on the desk before looking back up. "And the scene itself?" she asked. "The setup?"
Adewale's lips pressed together briefly before he answered. "It was exactly the same."
Travis let out a quiet breath. "So the ritual scene in the play matches the scenes where the victims were found."
"Yes," Adewale said, meeting his gaze.
Kate's tone sharpened again. "What happened after the girl died?"
Adewale straightened slightly, as if stepping back into control. "We shut everything down immediately. The police came. Questions were asked. The production was canceled before opening night." His fingers tapped lightly against the cane again, slower now. "People were shaken. Some left the industry. Others stayed, but things were never quite the same after that."
Travis tilted his head. "And the script?"
For the first time, Adewale hesitated. It was subtle, but it did not go unnoticed.
"It was destroyed," he said. "All related materials were disposed of."
Kate caught the hesitation. "Officially?"
Adewale gave a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it now. "This is a theatre, Detective. Nothing truly disappears. It only waits backstage until someone decides to bring it forward again."
Travis leaned back slightly, letting that settle before asking his next question.
"Who wrote it?"
Adewale's fingers stilled completely.
Another pause followed, heavier than the ones before.
Then he answered.
"Someone who believed the line between fiction and reality was thinner than most people are comfortable admitting... Aston Isley, Amara's father... a professional Voodoo shaman."
"Do you know where we can find him?" Travis asked.
"23rd, Winston Avenue, 3rd floor," Adewale replied.
"Thank you for your help and it'd be great if you could give us a copy of the script," Travis said as he stood up.
Adewale nodded. "I'll have my assistant send it to your precinct."
Kate picked up the photos and put them back in her inner coat's pocket. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Both of them turned to leave when Adewale called back...
"Detectives, do you believe in spirits?" He asked, leaning back.
"I believe in facts and soon we're going to find out the truth behind these deaths," Kate replied.
Travis didn't answer and walked out with Kate.
Find me in the link below for advance chapters: https://unknownmaster.carrd.co/
[20 advance chs] + [Modern Family: 15 chs Early access]