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When I head to the bus stop, I catch sight of the police officer again, and the tension returns. It’s nothing, I tell myself, as I get on the bus. It’s the same street, just several blocks up—he’s probably patrolling it today. I saw no sign that he recognized me, so there’s nothing to worry about.
But then, when I get off the bus—in an entirely different neighborhood where the ballet studio is located—I see him again.
My breath catches in my throat, and the dizziness washes over me all over again. Once again, I’m painfully aware of the bag of pills in my purse. There’s no reason, no coincidence, that can explain him being here, right now, unless he’s following me.
It takes every bit of self-control that I have to walk at a measured pace to the studio. Once inside, I fumble in my purse, terrified that I’ll accidentally drop the bag of pills as I fumble for the burner phone Lorenzo gave me. I know he’s not expecting to hear from me so soon, but I don’t know what else to do.
He has to know I’m being followed. I feel sure that he’d be furious with me if I didn’t tell him.
I can’t call him. I’m afraid I’ll burst into tears if I do. The anxiety has turned into full-blown panic, and I flinch at every noise, sure that the cop has followed me in here, intent on demanding to search my bag.
I’m being followed. What do I do?
I type out the message with shaking fingers, and hit send. I have no idea what else to say—it’s a burner, but surely I’m supposed to avoid any incriminating information, like Lorenzo’s name. He didn’t even save his number in it under a name—it’s just the only number in the phone. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to text him on it. He’s always told me to call.
The phone buzzes a moment later.
Followed???
I swallow hard, glancing once over my shoulder before I make my way down the hall to the lockers. I lean up against the cold concrete wall, quickly typing out another text.
The cop. From the club.
Another moment passes. The phone buzzes again.
Where are you?
I close my eyes, trying to breathe. He seems to be taking me seriously, at least. But the last thing I want is for Lorenzo to come here. I’ve tried very hard to keep those parts of my world separated—my position with the ballet, and my job at the club. Lorenzo being here could bring the two crashing together.
He’ll want an answer, and I have to tell him the truth.
The ballet studio. Down Park and 9th.
I don’t know why I give him directions, except that I feel instinctively that it’ll be the next question he asks, and my hands are shaking so badly that I don’t know how many more messages I can send. But the phone doesn’t go off again, and after a minute, I shove it back into my bag.
I have no idea how I’m meant to dance under these conditions. But I have to. An off night at the club would be one thing, but Annalise is ruthless. Any misstep, any sign of fatigue or strain or error, and she’ll be all over it. I have to be perfect here, always. We all do.
If I can’t master my emotions and get through this, I could lose the one thing besides Niki that really matters to me.
Taking a deep breath, I go to my locker and open it. I stash my bag inside, careful to sit it upright so there’s no chance of it falling over and spilling the contents, and get my tights, leotard, and pointe shoes out. Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the floor in the practice room, lacing up my shoes.
Many, many times, this room has offered an escape from everything plaguing me. All of the worries, the fears, the anxieties over the future, over Niki, over the responsibility I have now to make sure his life is a good one. I’ve often been able to lose myself in it—in the familiar rhythms and patterns, in the music, in the beauty of an art that has captivated me since I was a child. Ballet is everything I ever wanted. I dreamed of it, since the moment I first saw a ballerina—and in this, at least, I’ve gotten what I wanted.
Or I’m on the cusp of it, anyway.
I have the lead role in the next showcase. A chance to prove that I’m worthy of being the prima, that all the long years and hours and money spent have been worth it. That this one dream is something that I can achieve, even if nothing else in my life ever goes the way I hoped.
I have this, and the thought of losing it is beyond my ability to bear. It’s the reason we’re still in LA. The reason I’ve fought so hard to keep the life that keeps being tugged away from me, one inch at a time.
The tension is coiled through me like a knotted rope. I try to stretch it out, to lose it in the warm-up that I’ve done hundreds of times, but it remains. I’m stiffer than I should be, my movements lacking grace, and I see Annalise’s disapproving expression before she even fully turns my way.
“Are you elsewhere today, Miss Ilenya?”
Miss Ilenya. Coming from my uptight ballet instructor’s mouth, there’s nothing seductive about the formal address. But it sends a pool of heat through my stomach anyway, remembering Lorenzo calling me just that, earlier in his office.
He could be on his way here, right now.
The desire softens my limbs, just a little. “I’m sorry,” I manage. “I’m sore, that’s all. I must have overdone it at the last practice.”
