Page 11 of Dance of Deception

I force the memories away, burying them deep, where they belong, and stand.

The stairwell is silent except for the dull creak of my weight shifting on the warped wooden steps. My body is still wired, mypulse running too high, but exhaustion is starting to settle in now, weighing down my limbs. I just need to make it inside, lock the door, and go to bed.

I take the stairs to our fourth-floor apartment, clenching the railing, barely aware of how my hands shake. My heart hasn’t settled since the bodega, since I heard that man’s voice twisted with rage when he said her name.

Jordana Hodgkins.

Daniela Garcia.

Kerri Ayers.

Pamela Gill.

Yolanda Gonzales.

Sophia Ferguson.

I get to our floor before I can possibly finish listing all the names forever burned into my psyche.

The hall light flickers weakly as I approach the door. The paint is peeling, the number is slightly crooked, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke mixed with something vaguely chemical hangs in the air. I brace myself before unlocking the door, already knowing what’s waiting on the other side.

As soon as I push the door open, the smell of cheap vodka slams into me.

Vera is exactly how I expected—sprawled out on the couch in her ratty bathrobe, the television muttering some late-night talk show in the background. A glass sits half-full in her hand, the neck of the bottle within easy reach on the coffee table.

She barely glances at me, her gaze flicking up just long enough to take in my disheveled appearance before returning to the TV. “It’s late.”

I get that almosteveryonehas a complex relationship with their mother. But I’m willing to bet mine takes the prize.

It’s notjustthat she’s got a drinking problem. It’s notonlythat she’s a gambling addict, a textbook narcissist, and what pretty much any psychologist would label as “emotionally abusive.” It’s that—and I know this is going to sound dramatic, but it’s true—I have never,everfelt a single drop of “motherly love” from her.

Not once.

She didn’t outright neglect me as a child, of course. I was fed. I had clothes and a roof over my head. But parental affection? Snuggles? Being told I was loved?

It’s just not in her DNA. It used to bother me more. Or maybe I’ve just grown numb to it over the years.

And yes, I ask myselfall the fucking timewhy it is that after an entire childhood of getting the cold shoulder from her, I’ve found myself letting her live with me the last two years.

I still don’t really have an answer.

Maybe we’re just stuck with family for life, even family like Vera. Maybe I’m still holding out hope that one day, she’ll wake up and change.

But apparently, that day is not today.

I exhale, shutting the door behind me. “Rehearsal ran late.”

Vera snorts, shifting in her seat. “Re-hear-sal,” she repeats, like the word itself is funny. “Right. All that time dancing—tell me, when does it start paying the bills?”

I don’t answer. There’s no point. We’ve had this conversation so many times.

I drop my bag next to the door, my muscles screaming for rest as I roll my shoulders. All I want is to go to my room, lock the door, and collapse into bed for a few hours before I wake up and do it all over again tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?”

My brow furrows as I glance over at my mom. “What?”

“What’swrong,” she slurs. “You’ve got a look on your face.”

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