Page 11 of Blade

“And the video?” I remind her.

Jolene gets off the bed and starts to walk, pacing the room, bare feet pounding the blue specked carpet.

“Four strikes to his head with the heel of her blade? No—she adored Emile. Just like we did.” Jolene weaves her fingers through her hair and closes them into two fists. Then she walks to the window and looks out to the night sky. The pitch black with the flickering lights.

And I wonder, as I did with Grace moments before, where they land, her big blue eyes. On The Palace? The fifth light on the access road—Dawn’s house and the guest cottage where Emile lived? Or the patch of darkness before the highway? The field where Emile’s body was found, buried in the blood and snow?

Or does she see Emile? His dark eyes. The wave in his hair. He towered over me but stood eye to eye with Jolene. Maybe she’s remembering the way he walked, the distinctive limp from the fall that ruined his career, relegating him to a life coaching beside Dawn Sumner. Beneath her, as her assistant.

Dawn.I see us on a couch in her living room, watching my programs on a large television screen. I see the rich colors on the walls and fabric, reds and blues. Soft velvet and candles burning. Sinking in, safe. Warm.

But then, her voice. “There! You see? You slowed down before the takeoff. You were afraid.” And then silence as the music played, and Istroked around the edge of the boards, cut into the middle. A turn, a toe pick jabbing into the ice, a catapult sending me into the air. Dawn beside me, so close I can feel the heat from her body as my back stiffens, watching myself on the screen, knowing what’s about to happen and what I felt when it did happen. The relief when the edge of my blade dug in for a landing. And the shock when my body slammed into the ice.

I can see me now, my younger self, watching as Dawn frowned, or smiled, assessing my performance. Her feelings about me becoming my own. A flood of joy. A flood of despair that I think just might kill me.

Dawn Sumner.

Her voice is in my head.Don’t tell the others. This is our special time. Our secret.I didn’t understand why she brought me to her house for dinner. I didn’t understand why Emile joined us, walking up from the guest cottage where he lived back then.

I wonder now about Grace. If Dawn sneaked her out of Avery Hall, too, brought her home for stir-fry and orange soda. Videos of her programs, smiles and hugs that left her with the same desperate swells of joy and despair. And if Emile Dresiér was always waiting for this to break her down into pieces so that he could pick them up off the ground.

If Dawn did bring Grace to her house, singled her out for conditioning or training or whatever the hell that was, Grace might be afraid to say anything that would hurt The Palace—even if it meant saving herself. And now Grace’s words take on new meaning.

It’s not safe here.

Jolene tells me the facts she’s been clinging to.

“Nothing was ever reported about this place. There was no abuse, no sexual misconduct, no neglect. It’s different now, Ana. After what happened.”

Jolene walks toward me, stopping just far enough so she can see my whole face but still take my hands in hers.

“Your life turned out okay, didn’t it?” she asks.

And this catches me off guard.

I left this place at sixteen, spent two years at boarding school on the East Coast, went to Middlebury, then NYU Law. I was an acclaimed defender of traumatized children. Practically a celebrity, according to Artis, who has followed my career. I’m the children’s mouthpiece. I win back their lives. All of those things have been said about me. How ironic that I was, in the end, hailed as a kind of champion.

And a walking endorsement for The Palace.

Her question hangs in the air.Your life turned out okay ...

I stayed at The Palace after Kayla and Jolene both left. I stayed with Indy. Me and Indy.IndyAna.

Grace’s other words play again, this time with new meaning.

It’s all your fault.

My fault.

Me—Ana Robbins. The skater from The Palace. The Orphan at Avery Hall. The one person who also knows the truth about Emile Dresiér. About the field. About the room next to Dawn’s office where we learned how to fight our fear.

And who hasn’t told a soul. Not even Jolene, who might have understood. And who could have foreseen the danger it still posed to Grace.

I’m the one who didn’t try to stop it, even though helping children is my life’s work.

It’s all your fault.

And I think now,fuck.