Page 10 of Dance of Deception

Then I see the knife, glinting in his hand.

My pulse skyrockets and I drop the basket. It clatters to the floor, cans rolling across the tile, but I don’t care. I turn, shoving past him, my breath coming in quick bursts.

He grabs my wrist.

“My sister,” he hisses. “Her name was Jordana Hodgkins.”

I wrench my arm free, heart pounding against my ribs.

His sister.

Oh, God.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I snap, barely recognizing my own voice. I stumble back, knocking into a display of energy drinks, sending them crashing to the floor.

The sudden sound startles Francisco behind the counter. “Hey! What the hell?—”

I don’t wait. I bolt for the door, shoving it open so hard the bell nearly tears from the frame.

Run.

I sprint down the block, shoes slamming on the pavement, the cold air slicing into my lungs.

I can hear him following me.

I don’t look back. I don’t stop.

I’m already jamming my hand into my pocket and feeling for my keys as I round the corner, my apartment building in sight. I grab the front door handle, jam in the keys and yank hard, bursting into the dim lobby.

I slam the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place. Then I whirl, pushing through the door to the stairwell, my hands shaking as I grip the railing, my legs barely carrying me up the first few steps.

I don’t go straight to my apartment.

Instead, I sink down on the stairs, curling my knees into my chest, my pulse still pounding, bile rising in my throat.

Jordana Hodgkins.

Her name echoes in my head along with his other victims.

I try to shove the memory back into its cage but it breaks free, slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave.

The girl with the haunted eyes. The ugly bruises, the dirty chains. Thesmell. The sheer, abject horror.

I gag, shoving my fist to my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Arkadi, my father, is dead. He was killed in prison four months ago. But the ghosts he left behind are still screaming for the vengeance they never got and neverwilltruly get.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead pressed against my knees. People like Jordana’s brother will never believe I didn’t know. The world decided my guilt a long time ago.

The tabloid reporters. The clickbait conspiracy theorists like The Truth Report spouting their ludicrous theories online to increase their view counts, claiming that I had to have been involved. Saying that I knew. That I turned a blind eye. Or worst of all, that Ihelped.

It makes me want to scream until I can't scream anymore.

No matter what I say, there will always be people who believe I belonged in that prison cell, too.

And sometimes, when the nightmares claw their way into my head, when I wake up drenched in sweat, a scream lodged in my throat?—

I wonder if they’re right.

---