“Your father was involved?” Rika asked. “Why yours?”
It was a good question, and one I wasn’t sure how to answer yet. It was obvious why Evans wanted to get rid of Schraeder Fane. They were friends, and Evans had power of attorney over his friend’s estate in case anything happened. And Evans saw his chance. He wanted to marry Rika off to his son Trevor when she grew up, so the Fane fortune would be theirs. He knew Schraeder had no plans to allow his daughter to marry too young, though, and he knew Rika’s mother was much more pliable.
As for my father helping, I had no idea why. He wasn’t getting anything out of it. Maybe just a favor?
“I don’t know that yet,” I told her.
She sat up, and I watched her stare at the drive as she fingered the scar on her neck. The one she got when she was thirteen in the car accident that killed her father because his brakes had been cut. Gabriel and Evans didn’t expect her to be in the car that day, but thank goodness she lived.
Because I needed her and we had shit to do.
Winter
Five Years Ago
“All set?” Sara Dahlberg asked as she walked into the ticket booth.
I pooled all the nickels into my hand, dumped them back into the tray, and recorded the sum on a notepad, fingering the indentations of my pen marks to find where I needed to write the total. “Yep.”
“I’ll count your bills.” She pulled the tray over to her side, and I heard the shuffle of money as she counted the rest of my bank.
“Thanks.”
I shut down my computer and switched off the marquee outside, the constant buzz of the lighting above finally dying. I’d only been working here about eight weeks, but already that sound was killing me. I would’ve rather worked concessions inside, but the theater manager was concerned about how I would manage behind the counter with the chaos of other employees moving about. I had ideas, but she had a system that worked, so…
I didn’t really expect much more from her, though. She didn’t think I should do a lot of things. She only gave me this job right before my junior year started several weeks ago to shut me up about dancing with the company, since the theater not only showed movies but held plays, symphonies, and ballets.
I’d started looking for a job when the last school year ended to stay busy and enjoy some independence, but I’d had rotten luck, so it was either this or stay home to revel in Arion’s constant self-importance and listen to my parents fight.
“’Okay,” Sara said. “Here you go.”
I held out my arms, and she placed the tray with the count on a piece of paper in my hold, and held the door open for me as I left the little room. I tucked the tray under my arm, propped up on my hip, and held out my free hand to walk the path to the manager’s office. I’d gotten used to navigating it over the past two months, counting my steps and feeling my way.
Two months.
Two months since I’d started working an actual job.
Two months until Christmas and the only time Arion and I got along.
Two months plus one until I was seventeen.
And less than two years until I graduated, and two years since I’d spoken to him.
Two whole years.
The night of the car ride and motorcycle ride was the last time he paid me a visit. Why hadn’t he come back?
Scenarios and fears raced through my mind over time.
He’d been arrested.
He’d moved.
He’d died.
All of those were agonizing possibilities, but not nearly as painful as facing the most likely one.
He’d lost interest.
He’d had his fun, moved on, and was happy and laughing with someone else, while I sat around and missed him.
I thought that was why it was a good idea to get a job. If you can’t keep your head on straight, then at least keep busy.
I was still constantly aware of him, though. Living my life as if he were watching me. Curling my hair, asking Ari for makeup advice—which she loved and was actually really nice about helping with—and dancing. Dancing late at night after everyone had gone to bed in hopes that he was there and would know it was safe to come out.
Two strange but fascinating visits two years ago, and I still walked around like he was watching me.
Because, I swore, sometimes I thought he was. After that Devil’s Night and he disappeared, I could be at a party or a basketball game or sitting on the terrace under the awning in a summer rain and listening to my audiobook, and then…I’d feel it. The heat of his eyes.
I guessed he could’ve still been watching, but why cut off contact?
Probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but it made it hard to forget him. He’d definitely succeeded at making an impression, hadn’t he?
And in all the time since I’d last spoken to him, I hadn’t told anyone about him. I’d joined the dance club at school, made some new friends, and even though I felt a lot more comfortable there now, it was the one place that was drama free for me. I could only imagine how the story of my mysterious interlude with a dark stranger would suddenly turn into a story of how I was forced to dance for a psycho serial killer who wanted to dress me up in pigtails and keep my feet as souvenirs. No, thank you. I wouldn’t let anyone ruin it.
Not to mention, telling others risked my parents finding out, and that would be bad.
Carrying the tray up the stairwell, I walked into the manager’s office and set it down on her desk.
“Thank you, Winter,” she said. “How are you? You seem to be doing well down there.”
Yeah. “A nine-year-old could do that job.”
“Winter…” she scolded.
I wasn’t really joking, though. It was the truth. A typical teenage job. While I didn’t need the money, it was nice to earn my own cash and have something low-stress, so it didn’t distract from school, but it was also a job she thought I could do. She’d picked it for me.
And I wanted to do more.
I stood there, hovering, and she must’ve seen the look on my face, because she stopped counting the money.
“You nearly broke an arm,” she reminded me, sighing.
I fell practicing over a year ago. Dancers fell and broke bones all the time.
“You can’t dance with the corps,” she went on. “You learn slower than we can work with. The wrong fall could kill you. I mean…do you know what you’re asking of us, honey?”
My jaw locked, because she was tired of this conversation, and I had no new arguments. I danced on that stage downstairs many times when I was little. I danced at home with no accidents. Yes, it took me longer to learn my stage, and I would make everyone’s job just a little bit harder and that sucked, but it wasn’t impossible. I’d gone over it in my head a thousand times, mapping the choreography—mine and the other dancers’. I just wanted a shot.
She rose from her chair, the wheels squeaking underneath, and she pinched my chin lightly between her fingers.
“Challenges find us so we can become who we’re meant to be,” she told me. “God has taken you on an exciting new path. Trust his judgment and see where it leads.”
What the hell?
“I bought a first-class ticket,” I told her. “I’m not taking the bus.”
And I spun around, heading back down the stairwell.
People were priceless. The things we told ourselves to justify giving up and falling in line like we had to accept anything less than what we wanted. Like fighting for your dream was a bad thing.
I would tour, and people would pay to watch me.