Chapter 6
SIX
Today’s the day.
Daniel gripped the steering wheel with both hands and tried not to think about how he’d made the same pact with himself yesterday.
And the day before.
In the backseat, Tequila let out a restless whine. She’d been cooped up too long, just like him.
He looked through the car window at the Mikkelsen mansion, as if he hadn’t memorized its facade many hours ago. Despite Terry’s order, he couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car and carry it out.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, trying to justify his reasons for stalling.
One came easily: he had to wait for her to leave the house.
The plan was to follow her in his car, then make her pull over on a secluded stretch of road and do it.
He’d missed her yesterday and had seen no sign of her BMW today.
There’d been plenty of other vehicles coming and going. Contractors’ trucks, several vans emblazoned with a florist’s logo. One belonged to a caterer who specialized in weddings.
He leaned back in his seat, shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out her gold chain. He had taken to carrying it everywhere with him. For reasons that baffled him as much as the ones that had him sitting in front of her house for hours on end.
Maybe it was because she’d begun to occupy parts of his mind that didn’t listen to reason. Parts that liked to replay how good she’d looked in his sweatshirt. In his bed.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Then he reached over and opened the glove box. Took out his Beretta. Bent forward in his seat and stuffed it down the back of his waistband.
He wanted to be ready.
An uncomfortable fullness in his bladder made him think he should take a piss before doing anything else. He opened the car door, went round to the back, and unzipped his jeans. He was mid-leak when he realized he was being watched.
A huge black cat was sitting on the stone wall that bordered the Mikkelsen property. It had yellow eyes, and a mushed face, and was staring at him with a look of pure disgust. With a flick of its eyes, it switched the target of its loathing to the dog in his backseat.
Tequila had her head all the way out the window. She grinned at the cat, then gave a high-pitched squeal.
Daniel saw it all unfold a millisecond before it happened.
“Tequila, no—”
Too late. The dog leaped from the car in a single bound. She dashed across the road and galloped through the open gate after the cat.
Fuck’s sake.
He zipped up and jogged across the road. “?Tequila! ?Vuelve aquí!”
The dog paid him no attention, focused as she was on the flash of black ahead of her.
Daniel paused halfway up the drive and wiped sweat off his forehead. He glanced around, conscious of being in full view of the house and grounds. There were several vehicles in the driveway, but no one was about.
He gave a shrill whistle, then watched with dismay as Tequila loped cheerfully after the cat, past the fountain and all the way around the side of the house.
He reached under his t-shirt to check if his pistol was still in his waistband. Then he took a deep breath and followed.
* * *
Julia grabbed the shank of her pointe shoe and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a satisfying crack, leaving a dent in the plaster. She picked up the other one and flung it after it.
Then she marched across the studio, retrieved both, and beat them against the wall some more. Breaking in new pointe shoes was brutal. A workout in itself.
It was also the only thing keeping her from having a meltdown. She poured every ounce of frustration into those dainty pink slippers, taking it out on them instead of the thing she really wanted to destroy.
The memory of Floyd’s hands on her.
Sadly, the relief was fleeting.
Satisfied she’d softened them enough, she collapsed onto the floor, applied her toe pads, taped them down, and wrapped her toes in paper towels. Then she laced up her shoes, stood, and rose en pointe, testing the support through her arches.
Today marked the first day of her summer layoff from the Joffrey Ballet Company.
Not that it meant rest. She hadn’t taken a real break since she was eleven.
During the season, she rehearsed for nine hours and performed for three.
Off-season, she wasn’t in the studio quite as much, but she still treated it like a full-time job.
She moved to the barre, pushing through demi and grand pliés, before shifting into échappés, sautés, and passés, her toes hammering out a steady drumbeat against the Marley floor. She’d done these moves thousands of times. They came to her as naturally as breathing.
Until a sudden barrage of construction hammering and the earsplitting whine of a power tool shattered her focus.
She stopped, sighing, and turned toward the full-length glass doors that separated her studio from the pool area.
It was normally a serene view. Lately, though, it resembled a construction zone.
Workers had been swarming the backyard for a week, racing to finish the gazebo renovations in time for her sister’s wedding.
Her mother had been planning the event for five months. Julia had been dreading it for the same amount of time.
It was being heralded as the society wedding of the year. Five hundred guests, most of them rich and powerful. And, as her mother loved telling anyone who would listen, two minor royals.
Her sister was a soloist with the American Ballet Theater, and a rising star in the ballet world. She was destined to become a principle, and a great one, like their mom had been. At least, that’s what everyone said.
Julia, a lowly corps dancer at the less-revered Joffrey, got no such fanfare.
Which was fine. She didn’t need it. One day, if she worked hard enough, it would be her turn.
Scowling in the direction of the builders, she grabbed the sound system remote and cranked up the volume.
Back to work.
She returned to the center of the floor, composed herself, and prepared to restart—only to hesitate. One of the workers was sitting at a table near the pool. His head was turned toward her, watching.
A flicker of unease passed through her, but she pushed it away.
She launched into trickier jumps—piqué manèges, grand jetés—bounding from one end of the studio to the other. But despite her best efforts, her mind kept circling back to her observer.
There was something…familiar about him. And the dog panting at his feet.
She took a breath and forced herself into fouettés, the hardest move in ballet. Whipping around and around on one pointed foot, a human spinning top. It took perfect balance. Perfect concentration. Eyes locked on a fixed point, or she’d get dizzy.
Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five—
Her gaze flicked to the man by the pool. And in an instant, she knew who he was.
Her focus shattered.
She stumbled, the momentum of her spin tipping her into a downward spiral, her elbows and knees slamming hard against the floor.
For a moment, she just sat there, winded. Then she turned toward her unexpected audience.
He was still watching.
And then, unbelievably, he started to clap.
Heat flared in her cheeks. She leaped to her feet, stormed to the glass doors, shoved them open, and strode toward him. But as she reached his table and looked down at him, she realized she had no idea what to say.
So, the only word that came out was, “You.”
Daniel looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Don’t you get dizzy doing that?”
She blinked. Then glanced over her shoulder at the studio, realizing he meant her fouetté fail.
“Yes,” she said, then quickly shook her head. “No.”
He smiled, a dimple appearing in his left cheek.
“What are you doing here?”
The dimple deepened. “Disfrutando del espectáculo.”
She frowned. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Enjoying the show.”
She stared at him. He was very good-looking. Smooth, tanned skin. Bright hazel eyes under dark brows. A dangerous smile. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline. That, and the tattoos on his face, kept him from being too pretty.
He wore a backward blue ball cap, a white tank, and battered jeans. Silver glinted in his ears and around his neck.
His dog stood, sensing her attention.
“Tequila,” Daniel warned. “Compórtate.”
Julia tensed, but the dog just grinned up at her, tail wagging. “She’s friendly?” she asked.
He nodded.
Tentatively, she held out her hand. Tequila butted her head into it, drooling in gratitude.
She looked back at Daniel. “You’re a builder?”
He chewed a thumbnail and stared out at the pool, seeming to give the question a lot of thought. Then he sat back and shrugged.
Before she could probe, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Something small. Something that glinted in the sun. He placed it on the table.
“My necklace.”
“I found it in my trailer,” he said. “Thought you might want it back.”
He lifted it and held it out. She opened her palm, and he dropped it in.
“Thanks,” she murmured, closing her fingers around it. “I thought I’d lost it forever.”
Daniel scratched his jaw. His knuckles were raw, like they’d recently been scraped. Across his fingers, she noticed the letters inked into his skin.
L-M-N-1-3.
“How are you?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed hard. Looked away. “I’m okay.”
A lie.
As much as she’d tried to seal shut the lid on the box of horrors in her head, she couldn’t stop the flashbacks. They came, relentless: dark rooms. Sweaty fingers. Hot breath against her skin.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I didn’t tell anyone, you know.”
His expression sharpened, though his voice remained relaxed. “Why not?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate cops showing up at your door.”
A long silence.
Her voice was quieter when she finally said, “I’m not thrilled he got away with it.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t.”
She glanced at his knuckles again. At the letters on his hand. A chill passed through her.