Page 127 of Dance of Deception

Good. Maybe that will work in my favor.

“This way, Lyra. Move. Now.”

I’m shaking as Marcus leads me to a waiting car. The engine’s running, and there’s another guy behind the wheel—a swarthy, bearded man who glares pure hate at me.

“Get in the fucking car,monster.”

His words slam into me and I shudder as his eyes eviscerate me.

I’ve seen his type before. I’ve seen that same look of pure hatred and revulsion in the eyes of a dozen or so of Marcus’ more fervent followers over the years—men who read his blog, where he’d publicly post my address. Or listened to his podcast where he’d spew lies about me—that I lured the girls in and was in cahoots with my father.

Or the foulest lie of all: that Iassistedin their torture and assault.

Nausea rises inside me. For a second, I reach for the phone in my pocket. But the second I pull it out, Marcus shakes his head and puts his meaty hand on my shoulder again.

“Don't be fucking stupid, Lyra. Get in the car.”

25

LYRA

“How the fuckdoes someone evengetso twisted so young?”

Marcus’ harsh voice cuts through the thick air of the dim dive bar like a knife, sharp and unrelenting. My hands tremble under the table, fists curled in my lap, but I keep my face neutral.

Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

But it’ssohard.

The air is stifling, and rancid with the scent of stale beer. I don’t know where we are, a side street somewhere in the Lower East Side, near Alphabet City. The low murmur of voices from across the bar is indistinct, muffled.

All I can hear is Marcus.

I can feel the weight of his eyes pressing down on me, pinning me to the booth like an insect under glass. He sits across from me, his phone on the table recording the “conversation”—probably so he can play it on his podcast for his lunatic base of listeners who can’t distinguish a badly told fairytale from reality.

Kevin, the swarthy guy who drove us here, glares at me from the chair he’s pulled up to the booth, his heavy, tattooed arms resting on the table.

Chris sits next to me, side-eying me coldly. He’s still got a look on his face that suggests he maybe didn’t quite sign up for this, though.

“You were there, Lyra,” Marcus hisses, leaning forward, his dark eyes gleaming with a sick pleasure that makes my stomach twist. “Youlivedin that house. You expect us to believe you didn’t hear them?”

My throat feels raw, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in my chest. The pressure is building, coming in from all sides, crushing me.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper. My voice barely carries over the hum of the bar. “It was under the basement, heavily soundproofed?—”

Kevin snorts, slumping back in his chair. “Fuck you, bitch. We’re tired of your government-sponsored lies. What the fuckelseare you keeping from the public?”

Chris stays quiet, his fists clenched against his knees. You can almost feel his grief in the air, coiled tight and dangerous. But Marcus? He's enjoying this.

He leans in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey and bitterness. “How many girls did you bring to the basement?” His voice is low, wheedling, coaxing me to confess. “How many did you help him take? Or did you just help himkeepthem?”

Bile rises in my throat. My fingers dig into my thighs, trying to anchor myself and stop the memories from rushing in.

The door in the corner of the basement I was told to stay away from. The day it was left slightly ajar.

The sobbing. The sound of flesh slapping flesh. The cages and chains, the racks of pretty dresses…

I shake my head fiercely. “I didn’t?—”

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