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I don’t trust Penelope Hughes.
But on the off chance she really is in trouble, I can’t leave her alone either. Like Elsa, Penelope reminds me of another innocent dancer who was in trouble and didn’t tell anyone.
I want answers. Why is she married to a well-respected, almost feared financier only to hire a hack PI who made his mom his assistant? For show? If that’s the case, why hasn’t she told London about the letters?
And I know she’s received more than one. It was a fluke I witnessed the first letter that was taped to her door one morning before she opened her studio. Is it considered a fluke if I was low-key spying on her? I had even snuck up to the building to read it. I didn’t read the others, but I’ve seen them be delivered. Jacobi isn’t the only guy who can access cameras behind locked doors.
Is Penelope Hughes a faithful wife or a loyal friend? Because with what’s going on in her life, she can’t be both.
Penelope rushes out of the building. She spins and stares through the tinted glass doors, then pivots to search the parking lot. It’s like she’s frozen and doesn’t know where to run.
I sit forward. Is her reaction real? It can’t be. She’s not an actress, but she’s trained to perform.
She doubles over like she’s heaving. It’s pretty convincing. When she straightens, she runs a hand over her hair and gives her bun a squeeze. She puts her phone to her ear and scurries to her car.
At no point while I watch her does the act fade. The terror doesn’t leave her expression. She doesn’t quit pacing, but she doesn’t go near the building. She stays on the phone, and when a horn blares from the street, she jumps.
Convincing.
What the hell is going on in her studio? I haven’t been here more than half an hour. She arrives by eleven a.m. every day.
Well, shit. Part of me hoped she was pulling a long con. Hiring someone to leave her letters to… I don’t know. But the last thing I need in my life is a pretty dancer who needs to be rescued.
Awareness whispers across my shoulders. I feel like I’m being watched, but no one knows I’m here. Only Jacobi knows I was looking into the maybe-stalker, but he hasn’t followed up, trusting me to tell him whether I’m onto something. No one knows I’ve followed Penelope Hughes, studied her, wondered about her motivations. And I’m onto something, I just don’t know what. But it’s time I go.
I start the car and pull away, never getting any nearer to the studio. I don’t need anyone recognizing me and asking questions.
* * *
Penelope
My shakinghand is pressed to my lips. A tremor goes through me, starting at my head and vibrating straight down to my toes.
When I close my eyes, all I see is blood smeared everywhere.
Tires squeal behind me, and it’s like cold fingers wrap around my neck. My hand flies to my chest, and I will my heart rate to slow.
London is already out of her husband’s vehicle and racing toward me. Jacobi scans the parking lot with a wary eye.
Tears spring to my eyes. “Th-thank you for coming.”
London’s gaze strays to the front of my studio. She won’t see anything. I opted for gold-tinted glass when I opened the place. Classy and difficult to see through. I want to show off my students’ hard work, but I also want to make sure they have the privacy they need to feel comfortable during their training.
She throws her arms around me and squeezes. “Have the police been here yet?”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? A rabbit getting slaughtered in LA is the least of their worries.” I keep my back to the store. I won’t quit seeing the pile of mangled fluff on the floor and blood streaked over the mirrors like someone swung in a circle with an open cupful.
Jacobi strides toward us. He’s wearing board shorts and a white T-shirt. London is dressed for work in a cute floral wraparound dress. This is how I know them, and the sight soothes me. I called London, but I’m grateful Jacobi came too. He was the one to save both London and her business. He was also the one who wanted to destroy both, but he was a man in love who would’ve ripped apart the world to keep her safe. I hope some of that extends to her friends.
Jacobi studies the front of my studio with dark eyes. “I’m going to go in and take a look.”
Alarm stabs my side. London’s bright eyes widen. “Do you think it’s okay?”
His gaze softens when he looks at his wife. What I wouldn’t give to have a guy look at me like that. “There’s only one other entrance?” he asks me.
I nod. “I don’t use the back door. I didn’t see anyone in the practice area. There’s a small office in the back on one side and a locker room, then a storeroom and a bathroom. The door outside is between them. It should be locked.”
My entire studio was locked. I like to park in the main lot and go through the front. I’m closed off enough at my house, so I want to be around people.
