Page 1 of Dancing With Delusion

Tori

Istraighten my jacket before pushing open the door to the coffee shop. I don’t know why I feel so nervous. This is my friend, Phoebe, and having coffee with her is like sitting in my favourite old chair and relaxing. It was probably Dmitry’s list of instructions that set me on edge.

My mind wanders back to earlier this morning, when I had finally managed to calm Phoebe’s frantic phone call with an offer to meet in person to discuss the letter she received telling her my foster brother was dead. Dead. But, of course, I already knew that little snippet of information because I was there. I was the one who ended the bastard.

I give my head a shake as I spot Phoebe sitting in the far corner with her head hung, staring into her mug.

I approach cautiously. She seems on edge, and I don’t want to frighten her, but as I slide the chair out to sit, she looks up in alarm. I offer a smile, but she doesn’t return it, making the sick feeling in my stomach swirl faster.

Without a word, she slides a piece of paper towards me and watches as I open it. The scrawled handwriting reminds me of a child, and I take a deep breath before scanning the note. “When did this come? How?”

She pulls out a tissue and wipes her swollen eyes. “I found it first thing. It had been slid under my door.”

“So, this didn’t come in the post?”

She shakes her head. “Why did they put it under my door and not yours?”

I shrug, though I was thinking the exact same thing. “It’s probably just some crazy person, maybe a guy who likes you and got jealous.”

“Nobody knew about me and Marcus,” she whisper-hisses. “And I told you it was weird he just disappeared.”

“It’s not weird,” I counter. “He does this all the time.”

“No,” she snaps, shaking her head and swiping the note back to stare at it. “Something is wrong, I can feel it.”

“The note’s set you on edge, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

“Have you heard from him?” she demands. When I stay quiet, she arches a brow. “Exactly, and neither have I.”

“Christ, Phoebe, he isn’t dead.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I actually wouldn’t put it past him to send that note himself. It’s probably his way of dumping you. He’s always been a coward.”

“His phone’s been off for weeks.”

“Maybe he changed the number.”

“Why aren’t you worried?” she cries, and a few people look over.

“Because,” I hiss, leaning closer, “I know him, and I know what he’s like. I told you this would happen. I asked you not to get involved with him.”

She sniffles, wiping her nose. “I think we should call the police.”

My heart slams hard in my chest. “And have them laugh at us? Phoebe, it’s some wacko writing crazy notes. We can’t go to the police with no evidence.”

“He’s your brother and he’s missing. They’ll take it seriously.”

There’s a steely look in her eyes, and I sigh heavily. “Fine, I’ll report it.” I hold out my hand, and she reluctantly places the note in my palm. “They’re more likely to listen to me as his relation,” I add.

“I’ll come with you.”

I shake my head, pushing to stand. “No. I should call my parents and let them know first. They may have heard from him.”

“I thought you said you’d checked with them.”

This morning when she asked me, I’d lied and told her I’d already asked my parents and they hadn’t spoken to him. Dmitry said it was best not to involve anyone else in the lies in case the police do get involved. Not that they’d find anything—Marcus is long gone.

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