Never Dance with a Demon (Wrong Move, Right Monster #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Five, six, seven, eight—Mrs. Madison, your hips are not a suggestion.”

I clap twice, sharp and precise, and watch seventy-three-year-old Doris Madison attempt to sway in time with the music.

Attempt being the operative word. Her eighty-one-year-old partner, Arthur Hensley, who is convinced he was Fred Astaire in a past life, shuffles gamely along, his orthopedic shoes squeaking against the polished hardwood.

“Lovely,” I lie. “Now remember, the rumba is about connection. Feel the rhythm in your core.”

“My core feels like it needs a martini,” Doris mutters, but there’s a twinkle in her eye.

This is my Tuesday afternoon Seniors Social class—six couples, two widows who dance together because “men our age can’t keep up,” and enough determination to power a small generator.

They’re not going to win any competitions.

They’re not even going to remember most of what I teach them by next week.

But they show up. Every Tuesday. Rain or shine.

Which is more than I can say for the beginner Latin class I had to cancel last month due to lack of enrollment.

The music swells, and I weave between the couples, adjusting a frame here, nudging an elbow there.

The late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows that face Main Street, casting long golden rectangles across the floor.

This building used to be a Woolworth’s, back when my grandmother was young and Bellamy Cove’s downtown was the heart of everything.

Now those big display windows showcase me and my students to anyone walking by.

Free advertising, my mother used to say. Always smile when you’re visible from the street.

I smile. It’s automatic at this point.

“Beautiful, everyone. Let’s take it from the cross-body lead.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

During class, the outside world doesn’t exist. The studio is my sanctuary, all exposed brick and gleaming mirrors and the faint ghost of decades-old floor wax.

The ceiling is the original tin, painted cream, and the barre along the back wall is the same one my mother installed twenty-two years ago when she opened this place.

The music fades. I let it end naturally, then gesture toward the small refreshment table I always set up in the corner. “Excellent work today. Hydrate, stretch, and I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

The shuffle toward the water and the inevitable post-class socializing begins. I use the moment to finally check my phone.

Three messages from my accountant.

Wonderful.

I slip into the narrow hallway that leads to my office, a glorified closet sandwiched between the supply room and the single bathroom.

A worn leather couch occupies the space beneath the window into the studio and my ancient roll-topped desk takes up half of the remaining floor space.

The walls are covered with photographs. My mother in her competition days, all sequins and spray tan and teeth so white they practically glow.

Me at six, in my first recital costume. Me at fifteen, holding a regional trophy with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Me at twenty-two, cutting the ribbon on the studio’s grand reopening after my mother’s retirement, before the word “retirement” became a euphemism for something darker and more complicated.

I sink into my desk chair and pull up the emails.

Quarterly projections attached. We need to discuss.

Following up on my previous email.

Isadora, please call me.

The numbers swim before my eyes. I already know what they say.

I’ve been staring at variations of them for months.

Student enrollment down eighteen percent year over year.

Operating costs up twelve percent thanks to the ancient HVAC system that groans like a dying whale every time the temperature drops below fifty or above seventy-five.

Revenue... well. Revenue is the polite word for “barely enough to keep the lights on.”

I close the email and lean back, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars.

It’s fine. Plenty of businesses have slow seasons.

The problem is, this slow season has lasted approximately fourteen months.

A knock on my open door makes me drop my hands. Doris Madison stands in the doorway, her silver hair immaculate despite an hour of rumba, her pearl earrings catching the fluorescent light.

“You’ve got that look again, dear.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re calculating whether you can survive on ramen and dreams.”

I force a laugh. “I’m fine, Mrs. Madison.”

“Doris.” She’s been correcting me for three years, but I just can’t bring myself to use her first name.

“And you’re a terrible liar. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.

” She steps fully into the office, which means I have to scoot my chair back to avoid her sensible pumps crushing my toes.

“I saw the sign they put up. On Route 7.”

My stomach drops. “Sign?”

“Big flashy thing. Purple and gold. ‘Momentum Dance Academy—Opening Soon! State-of-the-Art Facility, Award-Winning Instructors.’“ She wrinkles her nose. “Tacky, if you ask me.”

Momentum Dance Academy.

I’d heard rumors, of course. Bellamy Cove is small enough that whispers travel faster than WiFi. Some chain studio from Boston, supposedly, expanding into the suburbs and coastal towns. The kind of place with sleek branding and corporate backing and probably a juice bar in the lobby.

“It’s not in Bellamy Cove proper,” I say, and I hate how thin my voice sounds. “Route 7 is technically Crestwood.”

“Technically.” Doris gives me a look that says she wasn’t born yesterday, or even the day before that. “Close enough to poach every student within thirty miles who wants something ‘fresh and modern.’“

Fresh and modern. I wince before I can stop myself, and I know Doris notices.

I love this studio. Every scuffed floorboard, every temperamental light switch, every crack in the plaster that I’ve patched with more hope than skill.

But I’m not naive enough to think love translates to profit.

Not in a world where people want LED walls and Bluetooth speakers and instructors who TikTok their choreography to millions of followers.

“I should get back out there,” I say, standing. “Make sure everyone’s settled.”

Doris doesn’t move.

“You know,” she says, “I was at the town council meeting last night.”

I pause. Doris attends every town council meeting, every planning board session, every zoning hearing. If Bellamy Cove were a monarchy, she’d be the power behind the throne.

“And?”

“And Margaret Richardson—you know Margaret, lovely woman, runs the bakery—she mentioned the Bellamy Cove Showcase.”

The words hit me like a splash of cold water.

The Showcase. I haven’t thought about it in years.

It used to be an annual tradition—a combination arts festival and community celebration, featuring performances from every local creative group from the community theater to the high school marching band to the historical society’s interpretive reenactments.

And, once upon a time, The Solis School of Dance.

But funding dried up. Sponsors moved on. The Showcase faded into memory, another casualty of changing times and tight budgets.

“They’re bringing it back,” Doris continues. “For the fifth anniversary of the restoration of the old pier. The tourism board is involved so there will be regional press coverage. Apparently there’s even prize money this year for the best performing arts presentation.”

My heart skips a beat.

“When?”

“Six weeks. Labor Day weekend.”

Six weeks. That’s nothing. That’s barely enough time to choreograph a piece, let alone rehearse it to showcase-worthy standards. I’d need students committed to extra rehearsals, costumes, music rights—

“The winner gets featured in the tourism board’s fall campaign,” Doris adds casually. “Posters, brochures, social media. Plus the prize money. Ten thousand dollars.”

Ten thousand dollars. That’s a new HVAC system. That’s three months of breathing room. That’s enough to actually invest in some marketing that doesn’t involve me handing out flyers at the grocery store like a desperate college freshman.

“You think I should enter.”

Doris gives me the patient smile of someone who’s been gently manipulating people into good decisions for seven decades. “I think you should do whatever feels right, dear. But for what it’s worth?” She pats my arm. “That flashy new place doesn’t have a single thing this studio has.”

“Which is?”

“History. Heart. A teacher who actually gives a damn.” She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Also, your rumba is better than anything they’ll truck in from Boston. Everyone knows it. Including you.”

She disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the photographs on the walls and the numbers in my head.

The studio empties slowly. I do what I always do: mop the floor, check the locks, organize the costume closet that’s been threatening to avalanche since June. Busywork. The kind of mindless tasks that let your hands move while your brain runs in circles.

The Bellamy Cove Showcase.

I remember being ten years old, standing on that pier stage with my mother’s hand pressing between my shoulder blades.

Posture, Isadora. Chin up. They’re watching.

I remember the sea breeze tangling my carefully pinned hair, the taste of salt and hairspray, the roar of applause that felt like the whole world opening up.

We won that year. Best Youth Performance. My mother framed the certificate and hung it in the studio, where it still hangs today, slowly fading behind its glass.

I pause in front of it now, dust rag in hand.

The girl in the photograph is smiling—really smiling, not the professional mask I’ve worn so long it’s become my default face.

She doesn’t know yet that her mother’s expectations will become a weight she can never fully lift.

She doesn’t know that “good enough” will never be good enough.

She doesn’t know that one day she’ll inherit this studio and wonder, constantly, if she’s running it into the ground.

You’re spiraling, I tell myself. Stop.

I finish cleaning and lock up, then step out into the evening air.

Bellamy Cove at dusk is like something out of a painting.

The harbor glitters with the last of the golden light, fishing boats bobbing at their moorings, and the smell of brine and fried clams drifts up from the waterfront restaurants.

The brick buildings of Main Street glow warm and amber under the old-fashioned streetlamps the town council installed after a particularly heated debate about “historical character.”

I walk the two blocks to my cottage on autopilot, nodding at the familiar faces I pass. Tom Wilson, closing up his hardware store. The Nguyen family, walking their absurd little pug. Officer Brixton, doing his evening rounds and pretending not to sneak a donut from the bakery bag under his arm.

My cottage is tiny—a converted fisherman’s house with a wide front porch, a garden I tend with more hope than skill, and a view of the ocean that makes the cramped kitchen and questionable plumbing worth it.

I sink onto the porch swing with a glass of wine I probably shouldn’t be drinking on a weeknight and watch the sun finish its descent into the water.

Momentum Dance Academy.

Bellamy Cove Showcase.

Ten thousand dollars.

The math isn’t complicated. If I don’t do something big, something visible, something that reminds this town why The Solis School of Dance matters, I’ll be closing my doors within the year.

I can cut expenses to the bone, cancel the classes that aren’t filling, and maybe pick up more private lessons for the wealthy summer people who want to learn a waltz before their daughter’s wedding. But that’s not a business. That’s hospice care.

The wine is crisp and dry and does nothing to quiet the chaos in my head. I pull out my phone and, against my better judgment, search for Momentum Dance Academy.

Their website loads instantly. Of course it does. It’s gorgeous—all slick video headers and testimonials from satisfied customers and a “Meet Our Team” page featuring instructors with jaw-dropping credentials and professionally shot headshots that make them look like dancing supermodels.

Award-winning choreographer. Former competitive national champion. Specialist in Latin, ballroom, and contemporary fusion.

I think about my own bio on my own very-much-not-professionally-designed website. Isadora Solis, owner and lead instructor. Trained in classical ballroom from age three. Dedicated to serving the Bellamy Cove community.

It sounds like a PTA newsletter.

I close the browser and toss my phone onto the cushion beside me. The porch swing creaks as I push off, setting it into motion.

Six weeks.

Could I even pull together a showcase-worthy performance in six weeks?

I’d need dancers—real dancers, not just my beloved seniors who can barely remember which foot goes where.

I’d need a concept, choreography, costumes, music.

I’d need to believe, actually believe, that I’m capable of creating something worth seeing.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head: Second place is first loser, Isadora. If you’re not going to commit fully, don’t bother at all.

She wasn’t wrong. That’s the hardest part. She was demanding, impossible, and relentless, but she was also a brilliant dancer and an incredible teacher. Everything I know, I learned from her. Including, apparently, the inability to accept anything less than perfection.

The last of the daylight fades. The harbor lights flicker on, their reflections dancing on the dark water like scattered stars. Somewhere down the street, someone is playing music, laughter floating through the evening air.

Bellamy Cove is alive. My studio should be too.

I finish my wine in one long swallow and stand, the decision crystallizing in my chest like ice forming on a winter pond.

I’m doing this.

Six weeks. No safety net. Every ounce of skill and discipline and sheer stubborn determination I possess. The Bellamy Cove Showcase is going to save my studio, or it’s going to destroy me.

Right now, staring out at the darkening sea, I honestly can’t tell which one is more likely.

I’m going to sign up tomorrow. First thing. Before I can talk myself out of it, before the numbers can whisper their warnings, and definitely before the ghost of my mother’s voice can remind me that I’ve never quite been good enough.