Page 134 of In Shadows We Dance

“I’m sorry, but client information is confidential.”

My heart lurches, but I keep my voice calm, light, even as my stomach knots. “Oh, of course, I understand. It’s just … well, Mr. Carlisle’s assistant doesn’t forgive mistakes like this, and I’d hate to cause a bigger issue.”

She hesitates. I hold my breath, gripping the receiver so tightly my knuckles ache.

“Hold, please.”

The hold music crackles faintly in my ear. I press my forehead to the glass, squeezing my eyes shut.

Please. Please let this work.

When she comes back, her tone is lower, softer. “I really shouldn’t do this, but … here’s the number.”

I scramble to write it on my arm, pressing the pen so hard it leaves faint scratches.

“Thank you so much.” I manage to keep my voice steady, despite the adrenaline roaring through me. I manage to end the call, to say goodbye, to hang up without slamming the receiver down.

I step out of the booth, and force myself to walk calmly down the street. Every step feels like a victory and a new risk, my mind already racing ahead.

Three blocks later, I find another payphone, and call the operator.

The operator’s voice crackles. “How may I assist you?”

“I’d like to make a collect call.” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. I give her the number.

“Name?”

I freeze. My mind scrambles, searching for something—anything—that will reach him.

“Ballerina,” I whisper. “Tell him it’s his Ballerina.”

The line clicks, then rings. Each tone stretches out longer than it should, winding my nerves tighter and tighter until it feels like I might shatter. My other hand digs into the glass, holding me steady as the cold air seeps through the cracks in the booth.

Please pick up. Please answer. Please, Wren. Still be there.

CHAPTER 68

The Monster Unmasked

WREN

The landline'sring slices through days of silence.

I've barely slept, barely eaten, barely moved from my surveillance station. Maps and traffic patterns blur across my screens, a thousand possible paths she might have taken, each one leading nowhere. My fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen by that intrusive sound.

No one uses landlines anymore.

My hand shakes as I reach for the receiver, something primal and possessive clawing at my insides. "Carlisle residence."

"You have a collect call from ..." The operator pauses. "FromBallerina. Will you accept the charges?"

The word hits like a bullet to the chest. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "Yes."

A click, then?—

"Wren?"

Her voice. Small, exhausted, butalive. The need to touch her, to wrap my hands around her throat and feel her pulse beneath my fingers, nearly brings me to my knees. My grip tightens on the receiver until the plastic creaks.

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