Page 144 of Dance of Deception

“It’s really fine,” I shrug as casually as I can right now. “We’re not…”

I pause.

We’re notwhat? Serious? A real couple? I don’t even know how to answer that question myself, so I shrug it away.

“All good,” I smile at her.

Dove shakes the last remnants of exertion from her muscles, pulls on a hoodie and track pants, and then exchanges her pointe shoes for sneakers. “I’m done for the night,” she says, shoving her gear in her bag. “You heading out too?”

I nod, and together, we make our way toward the back door. It’s late, the halls are dark, and the echoes of our footsteps bounce off the walls.

Just as we reach the exit, I groan as my hand slips into my pocket, finding it empty.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Dove glances at me. “What?”

“I keep leaving my phone in the change room.” I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She gives me a small smile. More genuine than the earlier ones, like she’s finally warming up to me. “It was nice talking to you, Lyra.”

I smile back. “You too.”

Dove pushes open the door and steps out, the night swallowing her up. Then the door clicks shut behind her.

I turn on my heel and make my way back to the dressing room. The hallway feels longer this time, and a strange, uneasy feeling prickles up the back of my neck. I push it down. It’s just the late hour and the fact that I’m here alone.

I sigh when I spot my phone right where I left it. But something’s different.

My pulse skips.

My phone is sitting on top of a manila envelope that wasn’t there before.

…With mynamewritten across the front.

What. The.Fuck.

No one else is here. It’s just been Dove and I talking in the studio, and the doors to the building are locked.

And yet, the envelope is here.

Haltingly, I force my feet to move. My fingers shake as I reach for my phone, lifting it gently and carefully, as if touching it might set something off.

I stare at the envelope for a moment, willing myself to pretend I never saw it, to turn around and leave. But I don’t.

I can’t.

With a deep breath, I finally pick it up, unseal it and tip out the contents.

It’s photographs: a whole stack of them, thick, glossy prints. I focus on the first one, and suddenly my stomach drops as my blood turns to ice.

They’re photos of my father’s crime scene in our basement.

I drop them like they’re on fire, my hand flying to my mouth to muffle the scream threatening to spill out of me. The photos scatter across the bench and the floor, black and white images of things I’ve spent my entire life trying to forget.

---