Page 98 of Shadow Dance

Iwake up with a soft gasp, my heart pounding. It takes me a moment to remember that I’m back in Boston, in my old room at Mom and Dad’s. Breathing through the last bits of panic leaving my system, I shove my sweat-soaked pillow aside and reach for my phone. It’s nearly five, which means I slept through most of the night without incident. Seems like the Prazosin is helping, after all.

I was dreaming about Callum again. I used to have this dream every night. It takes different shapes, but it always comes back to the impact of my bullets and the look on his face. The pain, the betrayal, a gut-wrenching mix of memory and whatever my brain has conjured up.

Climbing out of bed, I pad over to the bathroom to pee. Afterward I wash my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Slowly turning my face from side to side, I brush my fingertips over my cheek. It’s healed now, and it looks fine, but sometimes it feels a little numb. My doctor said that’s normal, and that eventually it would go away. I wish the memory of how I got the injury would go away, too.

When Bria and Liam were kidnapped, and her bodyguard was murdered right in front of her, she had nightmares for months, too. I would keep her company, sleeping in her bed until Lucky came home so she wouldn’t be alone. The first two months that I was back, I stayed attheir place and she did the same for me. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, crying, and feel her soft, warm body wrapped around mine.

“You’re okay,” she’d whisper, stroking my hair. “I got you. You’re okay.”

But she’s pregnant, and I couldn’t justify ruining her sleep with my trauma, so eventually I moved into my childhood home in Back Bay. I’d given up my own apartment before moving to Oakland, so I had nowhere else to go. It’s okay for now, though. I don’t want to be alone, and my parents like having me close.

Still, at times like this, I wish Bria were here.

And I wish Jaime were here. He’s still Jaime to me, no matter how much my brain argues with itself. I never really got a chance to know him as Cruz.

Returning to the bedroom, I change into a clean, dry t-shirt and strip my sweaty sheets from the bed. I bring everything to the laundry room and start a load then go to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Even now, months and months later, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans makes my stomach hurt and my eyes burn. It reminds me of Jaime.

I thought for a while that maybe he’d succumbed to his injuries. That’s what was floating around—that I was the sole survivor of the horrors that occurred that cold December night. It was the morning, actually. Just before dawn. I couldn’t believe it, refused to believe it, but it wasn’t looking good and nobody seemed to have any information.

The thought of him dying was agonizing, but not knowing was almost more than I could handle. And after the year I’d just had, I was a wreck. My stomach was in knots for days at a time, and I could barely eat or sleep despite lots of therapy and a prescription for Zoloft.

On my second trip back to the Bay Area, during a special meeting with the task force that had been investigating the De Leon family, I’d finally had it. I’d been giving them the same information over and over, and I was tired.

“I’m not giving you anything else until you can tell me what happened to Jaime,” I said, interrupting the agent’s current barrage of questions.

She looked at me, cocking an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Cruz,” I clarified. “I just need to know if he’s dead like everyone’s saying.”

After exchanging a glance with one of the other agents, she gave me a small nod. “His status is confidential?—”

“He told me himself who he was and what he was doing right before everything went down,” I said. “I get that this is sensitive, but I need to know.”

“Our agent is alive,” she said simply. “But Jaime Reyes is deceased. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered, and the relief that washed over me was so powerful that I began to cry. I sobbed so hard that my lawyer requested we take a break until I could get it together.

After the Feds let me go for good in February, I kept up with the trial from Boston. I watched snippets on the news or YouTube every day, always wondering if I’d catch a glimpse of Jaime. Which was ridiculous. He was supposed to be dead, so no, he wasn’t going to be traipsing around in public.

I’ve been keeping a low profile since I got back, too. Lucky has guys on me whenever I leave the house, and for the first few months, I even wore a mask. He and Bria offered the beach house to me, and I could always go to my parents’ cottage, but I don’t want to be alone. Not now, and maybe not ever.

My life isn’t as small as it was in the Bay, but it’s nothing like it used to be. I spend lots of time with my family and dance every day. I go to therapy once a week and the gun range with my brothers when the mood strikes. I don’t go out much otherwise, and this time it isn’t Callum holding me captive, it’s my own fear. Even after seeing Dario De Leon and all of his cronies go to jail for the rest of their lives, even knowing that Callum and his friends are dead, I’m still afraid that one day someone will want revenge for what I did.

Making myself a cup of coffee, I go back upstairs to start my day.

“Those werethe prettiest plies I’ve ever seen!” I call from the front of the class, beaming into the mirror. Behind me, a dozen five- and six-year-olds beam back, their little faces open and bright. Except for Greta.Her leotard is too big, so she keeps fidgeting with it. “Okay, now who remembers what a sauté is?”

Malika jumps up and down, her hand raised. Before I can even call on her, she executes three perfect little jumps.

“Beautiful, Malika!” I praise, clapping my hands as I glance back at her. “I like how you kept your toes pointed when you were in the air.” Turning to face the mirror again, I stand in first position. “We’re going to do five sautés from first position, like this, then five in second and five in fifth.” I demonstrate each position as I say it, scanning the class for confused expressions.

Grant raises his hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

After class, I chat with some of the moms while their littles get ready to go. I teach pre-ballet four times a week, and it’s become one of the highlights of my life. It feels so good to teach what I love, especially to kids as cute as these ones. I usually take classes too, but not today. Slipping a t-shirt and shorts over my leotard and tights, I wave to the girls coming in for the afternoon class and head out.

A black SUV is parked on the curb, hazards flashing. Walking over, I open the door and climb in. “Boo.”

Alex looks up from his phone. “Hey, Maeve.”

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