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she deserved to be. Violet and I had expected it to take years to receive a response from the Shubert Organization, to book one of its seventeen or so New York City venues.
    “I know you were looking for long-term arrangements,” Lindsey said. “But we have a ninety-day window available in February next year.”
    “February,” I repeated, my mouth numb. That was five months away; it would overlap with the show here in Detroit. That meant flying back and forth. Frequently.
    “We’ve heard a lot about your show, and we’re interested in working with you and Violet.”
    “Thank you.”
    “So, when might you be in New York to come by and walk through the Imperial?”
    “The Imperial ?” I pinched my arm to make sure his wasn’t some sick dream. “Isn’t Les Mis booked there?”
    “Yes, the show has just ended. And I assure you, as a result of the investment by the operator, the accommodations here are excellent. But we need you to see if the stage will meet your show’s requirements.”
    I flipped the screen to my calendar. “I could swing by next week,” I blurted.
    “How about I arrange a time for you to meet with the stage manager on Tuesday morning? She takes Mondays off.”
    I nodded, my mouth dry. “Perfect. Tuesday morning. I’ll be there at ten.”
    We finalized the details and, the moment we hung up, I jumped out of my seat and danced at the desk. Things were finally happening for Violets. Amazing how two hundred thousand dollars had created a new life for herself. For all of us.
    And she had proven that magic truly does exist, that all you needed was a dream. You chase that dream, you chase it hard and all your fears and tears will go away. Violet, a true magician . A savior, a guardian angel, all things perfect and sane and true.
    But before I could expel the excitement, the alarm started. The iPhone vibrated, chimed, and I realized that it was time to leave for the show. The illusion show.
     

5

     
    At this time of night, the streetlights, moon and stars provided rich illumination on this upscale stretch of Lake Shore Rd. I stopped on the opposite side of the median, on the side of the road where the houses were not as large. Opening my Camry’s power windows, I stared across that median at a house so large and wondered how any rational person could find a functional use for all of its space.
    The gate was open, which meant someone would be coming home. Soon. I wondered if it would be her.
    Times like this, I ached for a cigar, some kind of poison to fill my lungs and spread into my body. But I had nothing here with me.
    I watched a Bentley approach on the other side of the road and sail past the open gate, completely uninterested, its taillights fading in my rearview mirror. Shifting my attention back to the open gate, I wondered for the millionth time why she had left me. The truth , the real reason.
    A set of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. They belonged to a Cadillac Escalade that slowed as it got closer, and then turned through the opening in the median. It steered past the open gates and disappeared among the mature trees. Its tinted windows protected the identity of the driver and any passenger, robbing me of a glimpse of what was once mine, what I had lost.
    I missed her. A lot.
    The gate eventually closed and, as always, I settled on an answer that surely didn’t compare to the truth I wanted: Andrea had left me in favor of more money. She had left me for an insurance policy known as a much older man.
    I reached down to the shifter and knocked it into Drive, steering into the darkness and leaving behind the quiet chaos of a life my ex had ripped out of my hands—a life with her .
    As I approached the city, traffic thickened. It was louder here, cheaper here, but it was alive.
    Vibrant.
    A block from my loft, after passing the ACE Hardware store and the abandoned properties behind it, I realized that, without this darkness, the light had no reason to exist. Without my ex,