Gaining the top of the stairs, Marilyn saw a large can siting on the floor of the balcony. Aluminum covered the can and two wires routed across the floor to snake up under the seal and into the can. Gingerly, she peeled the aluminum back and saw a black powder in the device. Comprehension dawned on her. This was a pyrotechnic; something the show would use to frighten the unwary. It was a gag to use on her, and Marilyn felt insulted. All the worries she had while on the factory floor dissipated in the face of her anger.

Those bastards had made such a production of the valley’s past that she should have known it was all a pack of lies, that she was going to be made the fool on national television. Worse, Cal was right all along. She had stepped into a trap and she would have to admit her naivete to her husband.

Deep inside Marilyn, something snapped; the anger she had held in check for so many years came to the surface and surged forward with red-eyed fury. Bypassing the can, she followed the wires past the only door to a section of wall that was held in place with a large sheet of plywood. There was a small gap between the plywood and the wall, large enough to slip her fingers in the gap and rip the plywood from its setting to reveal a door. Two bungee cords hung from the eyebolts used to hold the wood in place and the two wires passed into a gap under the door.

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Without caution, she flung to the door open and entered the room.

It was once an office, the furniture water damaged and rotting, the desk leaning precariously to one side with the pulp remains of the papers that once cluttered its top. Her nostrils flared as Marilyn breathed deeply of the musty air, the adrenaline in her blood commanding action.

There was more than must in the air, the tang of urine, unmistakable to a mother, polluted the room.

Huddled in a corner of the room was the dark shape of a person rocking back and forth in autistic agony.

Four quick strides brought the victim in reach, and Marilyn released her fury. She jerked the man from the corner and examined his face. Of course, it was a man. Only men would shrink at the sight of a woman justifiably enraged. Only a man would design such a failure of a show. A man would find the idea of tricking a hard-working woman delightful.

And only a man would cry in the face of discovery.

Reaching back, Marilyn unleashed her anger and hit the man, her fist striking his face and her ring gouging his cheek. The sight of blood only seemed to spur her on. Standing over the man, she rained blows on his head while he pathetically tried to ward off her fists.

When her arms tired, Marilyn used her feet to pummel the man as he stared past her, his cries silenced.