Page 9 of Dance of Deception

I pull my hoodie tighter around me.

Again, it was like he wasgetting offon my terror.

Like a psychopath.

I should be thinking about the grocery money I don’t have. The rent that’s due. My mother, who I can almost guarantee is passed out drunk on the couch again, or if she's awake is ready with a fresh round of biting words and bitter resentment.

Instead, all I can think about is the press of Carmine’s rough palm against my throat, the way his eyes lingered. How my pulse thrummed against his skin.

He liked that.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head.Get out of your head, girl.

I force my gaze down to my lap and my wallet sitting there, then up to the meter on the cab. My dumb pride still wants to tell Brooklyn thanks but no thanks. But pride has a way of taking a back seat to hunger and desperation. Mercifully, she slid me enough money fortwocab rides. That solves my hunger problem for the evening and probably the next few days, if I can stretch it.

“Here’s good, thanks,” I murmur to the driver as we get to the 24-hour corner bodega a block away from my building. I pay him and slip out of the cab, slamming the door behind me.

The street is mostly deserted at this hour. I turn toward the familiar glow of Francisco’s, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket and already making a mental list of the basics I can grab.

Bread. Instant ramen. Maybe some canned soup?

The bell over the door jingles as I step inside. The bodega is warm and smells like stale coffee and overripe fruit. I nod at Francisco behind the counter, a man too old and tired to care about anything except making sure nobody steals from him.

I grab a basket and head toward the shelves.

I don’t notice the man standing at the end of the aisle, blocking my exit, until it’s too late.

My chest tightens. He’s not someone I recognize, but there’s something off about the way he's staring at me with such focused intensity.

Not this again. Please.I thought these psychos were done with me.

I grip the basket tighter. “Excuse me…”

He doesn’t move.

“How did you not know?” His voice is quiet, but the steel in it is unmistakable.

I go still.

“What?”

His head tips slightly, dark eyes burning into mine. “How the fuck did you not know the girls were down there, Lyra?”

The ground tilts beneath me.

A rush of cold sweeps through my limbs, my grip tightening even more on the basket. “I don’t—” I shake my head, taking a step back. “I think you have me confused with?—”

He takes a step forward. I step back again, the metal shelves biting into my spine.

“Youcoveredfor him,” the man mutters, voice shaking with rage. “The Truth Report says it’s got new information that youcoveredfor that motherfucker.”

A buzzing starts in my ears, drowning out the sound of the flickering overhead fluorescent light, the hum of the refrigerator case behind me.

Not here. Not now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing steel into my voice. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won't find it here.”

The man’s lips curl into a sneer.

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