Jamming hands into my blazer pockets, I weaved with end-of-day foot traffic, making my way from the work district to the more artsy side of town. Where small theatres hugged street corners and posters displaying colourful dancers decorated lampposts.
Stepping into the area where I’d practiced my art before moving to London, I struggled not to cry.
I missed dance.
I missed the smell of musty picture houses and papery playbills.
I missed Gil even while I hid from him.
Dance practice had finished for the day for full-time staff, and it seemed no after-school classes were held tonight as I slipped into the studio where I’d first been noticed by the London Dance Company. I’d sweated and cried and flown on endorphin highs in rooms that all looked similar.
Mirrored and wooden floored, a simple stage for a ballerina.
I no longer belonged here.
My accident had stolen that right.
The door clicked behind me; the heavy silence of the space hugged me tight.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled deep.
Tears sprang to my eyes as leotards and ballet slippers and sweet piano notes pirouetted on my senses.
I was safe here because no one would expect me to come. Those who used to know me had grown used to my absence, and those who didn’t would never know what each dance studio—no matter where they were—meant to me.
Dropping my purse on the piano stool, I kicked off my heels and placed my silenced phone on the polished wood of the ivory-keyed instrument.
Ten more missed calls from Gil since lunch.
Ten more times I didn’t answer because I had no idea what to say.
I wanted him to tell me everything.
But I was too in love with him to hear the truth.
Innocent.
Guilty.
Both came with complications I wasn’t strong enough to bear.
Balancing on my toes, I spun in my stockings on the slippery wooden floor and closed my eyes. I ignored the twinge in my back where surgeries had given me the gift of mobility but taken away lithe grace. I clenched my teeth against the tightness and restriction of stolen movement. Notes of music whispered around me, and I danced...alone.
My arms rose like useless wings as I glided and spun.
My childhood found me as it so often did when I released myself from adulthood. I remembered the loneliness of having parents who didn’t really care. I basked in the happiness of knowing Gil loved me enough for any missing or absentee family. My arms fanned out to hug the teenage boy who owned my soul. The music in my veins spread louder, faster, and I answered the summons.
I threw myself into the air, performing a move I’d perfected. The grand écart en l'air had been my favourite. I found it so easy. So effortless to soar from one leg to another and slice my legs into splits at the highest point.
My teacher and employer said no one could bend as much as I could in full flight.
My eyes stayed closed as I relived the sensation of being unbelievably good at something that didn’t require skill or repetition—it was just a gift. My body’s gift. My soul’s purpose. My life’s design.
But unlike so many other hundreds of times, I didn’t land weightless and elegant. I didn’t manage to kick and split. I didn’t have that priceless gift anymore.
My ruined back seized mid-bend.
My healed bones and stitched together muscles hadn’t forgotten the punishment they’d endured.
I landed with a teeth-rattling jar on my knees, bowing on the floor before mirrors that’d witnessed my failure.
And my silenced phone vibrated against the piano.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Tears cascaded down my cheeks as I accepted the physical pain as well as emotional. I’d come here to torture myself deeper. To layer more agony. It might not have been intentional but the pain was double as I crawled toward the piano and grabbed my phone.
It stopped ringing; I slouched against the mirrors and stared blankly at the screen.
Gil.
I couldn’t call him back.
I couldn’t talk to Justin.
I couldn’t turn to my old dancers.
I couldn’t go home and lick my wounds.
All I could do was sit there and let my mind dance faster than my body ever could.
* * * * *
I stayed until well past dark.
Until cleaners wheeled their squeaky mop buckets, washed up shed-sweat, and tidied spaces for another day of practice tomorrow.
My stomach had quit complaining about hunger an hour or so ago, disgruntled at me for ignoring its demands. My heart had stopped grieving for my stolen abilities. My mind was exhausted from chasing thoughts and theories on Gil.
My phone was almost dead from the many internet searches and more research on the murdered painted girls.
I’d overstayed my welcome, and as much as I’d like to stay hidden, my options had drastically reduced to just one.
Regardless of Gil’s involvement, I was safer with him than anyone else.
I needed to sleep, to shower, to eat.
I needed answers so I could kiss Gil goodbye if he wasn’t the person I hoped or stand by his side if it was all a terrible coincidence.
Either way, answers would be given tonight.
The Master of Trickery had tricked me enough.
It was time for the truth.
Even if it killed...everything.
My phone buzzed again.
Instead of it being another call from Gil, Justin’s name popped up with a message.
Justin Miller: Your turn to disappear, huh? Can you call me and let me know you’re okay. Gil is frantic. To be honest, he’s scaring me a little. This morning all he wanted to do was find you so he could talk to you. Now, he’s telling me to find you and keep you the hell away from him. What the hell is going on, O? Message me back, and I’ll come pick you up. You’re staying at my place until we figure this out.
Before I could exit out of the message, he sent another one.
Justin Miller: I don’t know where you are but don’t go see Gil alone. I don’t trust him right now.
I sighed. Just like in high-school, I was trapped between two boys. One boy was the poster child for good behaviour, helpful manners, and kind deeds. The other was the warning bulletin for bad families, harsh poverty, and dirty secrets.
I’d fallen in love with the wrong one.
I’d chosen my path.
I no longer had a choice.
I never had a choice.
Clicking reply, I typed:
Olin Moss: I’m going to see Gil. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.
Locking my phone, I slung my bag onto my shoulder, took one last look at the studio that survived the death of my dreams, and slipped into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
THE WAREHOUSE DIDN’T seem pleased to see me.
The hulking brick and graffiti held no welcome.
But at least no black van lurked down the drive and no nasty kidnappers tried to steal me as I turned off Gil’s hatchback and opened the door.
I’d been a car thief. Even if I hadn’t wanted to face Gil, I would’ve had to return his vehicle at some point.
A whip of biting wind howled down the long avenue of warehouses.
The chill made me shiver.
Wrapping arms around myself, I hugged away my trembles as best I could. My back still ached from my stupid attempt at a grand écart en l'air, and my knees held bruises from cushioning my fall.