Page 4 of Shining Through

“Catwoman. And by the way Missy, you didn’t bother to tell anyone where you were going during the show. For all I knew, you’d taken off for God-knows-where because you were pissed at me. How do you think I’d feel, knowing I’m the reason my baby girl wound up dead in a ditch someplace?”

“I told a page. He was supposed to tell you. It’s not my fault if he didn’t. Besides Fiona, I wasn’t talking about Julie Whoever. I was talking about Catwoman.”

Tabitha rested her head against the seat. Though she was glad her family had come to see her skate, sometimes they made her crazy. “She means the character, Mom.”

“That’s another thing!” Riled up, Fiona turned on Samara. “Your older sister calls me Mom, but you can’t even manage that.”

“To me, you’re Fiona,” Samara said, with a shrug, staring at her phone again. “Anyway, the director’s booth was sick and I’m not dead in a ditch, so you can relax. Shit’s under control.” She returned to scrolling on her phone.Tap, tap, tap.

Tabitha closed her eyes, and wished she could return to her room for a nap, rather than head to practice. Last night, she’d hardly slept. They’d arrived late from California, and it felt like only a few hours later, she’d had to be up for her early call at the morning show. She never slept well in hotels. Come to think of it, lately, she didn’t sleep that great anywhere.

“So.” Peter clapped his hands together. “Star Spangled Skate. We have two days to whip these programs into shape and Antigone still isn’t where it needs to be.”

Tabitha pressed her lips together. The state of her long program was the elephant in the room. “I have all the elements.”

“Except one,” Peter said, quietly.

Passion. You’ve lost it and if the Winter Games aren’t enough to bring it back, what is?

“I’m just not feeling Antigone. It’s too heavy, it’s too sad, it’s too... much.”

“It’s opera,” Peter said. “Not your favorite, I know.”

“I wanted to use the program Misha and I choreographed to the Hozier song. You said you liked it.”

“I like it, and it’s fine as your show program. Which it will stay. Contemporary music is a good fit for some skaters. A teenage girl, for example.” Though he didn’t name names, everyone knew Mia Lang was using One Direction’s “What a Feeling,” for her short program. “But it isn’t right for who you need to be on the ice. A piece like Antigone carries a gravitas that isn’t suitable for a fifteen-year-old but is perfect for a refined, sophisticated twenty-three-year-old Harvard student.” He paused to let his point sink in. “Is everyone straight on that?”

By everyone, he meant the only person in the cab likely to challenge him. Fiona always took Peter’s side. Samara couldn’t care less. Tabitha stared out the window. On the sidewalk, people passed by, free to go where they wanted, and do what they pleased. Would that ever be her life?

She glanced over at Fiona, who’d cleaned houses and served hot dogs to pay for Tabitha’s ice costs. She thought of Samara, who’d spent her childhood being dragged along to Tabitha’s competitions, while her needs were ignored. Her family had sacrificed so much to give her this chance. Three years ago, she’d let them down. Not this time. She turned back to her coach and nodded. “Everyone’s straight.”

A snicker came from the other side of the back seat. “Everyone except Catwoman.”

CHAPTER THREE

New Castle County, Delaware

Outside Courtroom Six, Daniil Andreev stared at the muted television in the waiting area. A cheerful American mother was serving breakfast sausages to her delighted family. Their happy faces only deepened the relentless throb of Daniil’s misery.

Ilya Zaikov sat down in the molded plastic seat next to Daniil. “Are you all right, Dan’ka?”

The name was what a father might call his son. Though Ilya was one of Daniil’s figure skating coaches, and not his father, he cared a lot more than the real one did.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Daniil kept his voice low, though they were speaking Russian, and it wasn’t likely anyone nearby could understand them. “The lawyer says even if everything goes to hell, the worst I’ll get is ninety days in jail.”

As far as Daniil’s skating season was concerned, ninety days was a death sentence.

“I have faith the judge will show mercy,” Ilya said. His voice held certainty Daniil wished he shared. “Once you explain you didn’t intend to steal the motorcycle, and the person you thought was the owner gave you permission to ride, he’ll see it was a simple misunderstanding.”

“Too bad that person is in Australia,” Daniil said. “And without her to prove I’m telling the truth, will the judge believe me? The Bad Boy of Russian Figure Skating?” His mouth twisted around the nickname he’d once enjoyed living up to.

The courtroom door opened and a thick-wasted woman in a blue uniform barked several names into the waiting room. Daniil tensed, then relaxed. His name wasn’t one of them. Yet. But his knack for finding trouble was about to deliver the fatal blow to everything he and his coaches had worked toward. “You and Anton did so much for me. Now it’s all for nothing.”

“Not nothing.” Ilya’s gaze seemed to bore into him. “We see the good man you are. Others will see it, too.”

Like that would happen. Daniil pushed himself up and into motion, pacing the floor, consumed with the familiar urge to escape. He couldn’t bear to look Ilya in the eye, but there was nowhere to go. He stared at the floor, seeing nothing.

If I get out of this without jail time... I swear to God, no more screw ups.

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