Page 43 of Dance of Deception

I force an easy smile to my lips. “I told you, I’m totally fine!”

We texted the other night, after…what happened. I haddozensof missed calls and texts from her, because she was terrified for me when she didn't see me in the dressing room afterward along with everyone else.

She frowns. “Lyra, when you didn’t come back…”

My stomach knots.

I donotplan on telling her what happened.

“I told you,” I say lightly. “That voice in my earbuds told me to stay behind to dance a little longer, that’s all.”

She exhales, looking down. “I tried waiting for you, but they made me leave.”

I squeeze her arm. “All good.”

But it’s not all good. Not when I continuously, constantly, keep thinking of that chase, making something tingle inside me.

We turn for the door, but I can’t help myself.

“Hey, I…” I clear my throat as Brooklyn glances back at me curiously. “I went to call that number. You know, to see about dancing again…”

“Yeah—disconnected, right?”

The tension melts a little from around my chest at the easy way Brooklyn says it, like it’s to be expected.

“They do that.” She shrugs. “Security thing, I guess. They burn the number after every gig.”

Thank God.

So that’s why the number was no longer in service. Not because they know I saw. Not because The Hound told them I came on his fingers.

I exhale, my shoulders lowering as the stress melts out of them.

“They’ll text you from a new number when they?—”

Her phone dings loudly, as if on cue. Brooklyn pulls it out of her pocket and grins.

“See? Speak of the devil.”

She turns the phone to me, displaying a message from an unsaved number that simply reads “further instructions forthcoming.”

I pull my phone out, my eyes dropping to the screen.

No text.

Fuck.

“I’ll reach out,” Brooklyn says quietly, flashing me a forced smile. “I’m sure it’s an oversight. I mean, they asked you to stay longer last time, right?”

“Yeah, no, totally,” I mumble, trying not to spiral. “Anyway, we should head in.”

Inside the theater, the dressing room is buzzing, with dancers huddled together, whispering.

“What’s going on?” I ask as we walk over to Naomi and Milena.

Milena’s brow furrows as she turns. “It’s Bianca’s dad,” she says. “Apparently he had a heart attack last night.”

Holy shit.

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