SHADOWS & SEQUINS

January 24, 1952 Grandson's Burlesque Theater and Pub

The spotlight was a lover's embrace, turning your pearls into liquid starlight. Your chest heaved—part performance, part pure electricity. The applause crashed like waves, and you rode each sound with a performer's practiced grace.

Your heels weren't just shoes; they were percussion instruments, clicking a staccato rhythm against weathered floorboards. Each step told a story—of nights in smoky clubs, of secrets whispered between sequins and shadows.

The dressing room was sanctuary and battlefield. Makeup mirrors reflected a thousand fractured moments, costume pieces draped like evidence of some intimate crime. And there he was—Leon S. Kennedy. Less a detective, more a sharp-edged shadow cutting through the room's soft edges.

"Detective Kennedy," you purred, removing your boa like you were peeling away layers of mystery. "Bothering me again?"

His smile was tight, professional—but something dangerous lurked underneath. Two weeks of investigating a murder, and you'd become an unlikely dance partners in this macabre investigation.

"Quite the show," he said. Not a compliment. An observation.

You laughed—a sound that could slice through cigarette smoke. "Information comes at a price, detective."

He clicked his pen. You both knew the game.

“That so?”