Page 16 of Blade

I shake off what’s left of the memories and think about the next twenty-four hours.

Jolene told me she never saw any signs of change in Grace. But then there’s that video. Grace attacking another skater at Avery Hall. The housemother there, a former skater named Shannon Finch, witnessed the altercation. She’s young and far more involved than Edie ever was—the old woman who ran the place in my day.

I have to get to Avery Hall, then The Palace, and Dawn. I feel bile churn in my gut, a small burst of adrenaline at this thought. But there’s no time for my own apprehension. This is what has to happen. We need more facts. And we need them quickly.

The local attorney, Artis Frauhn, has already been crucial to Grace’s defense. Making the deal with the prosecutor. Buying us these two days to come back with a statement before she decides about the charges.

I didn’t know Artis well when I lived in Echo. But he remembered me from our eighth-grade science class, had followed my career after I left because he, too, had become a lawyer. I remember when he reached out on Facebook, how I couldn’t place him until he spoke about a lab we were assigned to, as partners. We were dissecting frogs, and I madehim do the cutting of the skin and sorting of the organs while I hid behind pen and paper, taking notes and making drawings.

The skaters and the locals didn’t mix. Other than the few hours we spent at school with them, excused from all nonacademic classes and having no time to hang out, our lives rarely intersected.

But now he was a big fish in this little pond. And the first call Shannon Finch made when Emile’s body was found and she knew the police would soon be at the steps of Avery Hall, looking for Grace. Artis then called Jolene, who was still here after the holidays, staying in this condo until it was time to take Grace to Nationals. Jolene tracked me down at the conference in Aspen.

In the kitchen, I make coffee, bring it to the living room, and sit in the chair with my back to the window, remembering what Grace said to me.

It’s not safe here.

It’s all your fault.

I close my eyes and see that blade striking Emile’s skull.

Emile is dead. This hasn’t reached the places inside me I know it will go as soon as this is over, this fight to save Grace.

Emile is dead.

This thought will go to those places. And make me feel good.

There’s a knock at the door, startling me away from the image of Emile’s crushed skull. I walk to the foyer, where a wall of cold slams into my face. Two men walk past me before I can close the door. We stand and shiver as snowflakes float to the ground.

“Hey,” Artis says, hanging his parka on a hook. He’s wearing a blue suit with a red tie and smells of aftershave.

“I thought you were going to court this morning,” I tell him, remembering that we’d made a plan. He was supposed to be in court up in Denver on another case, using the opportunity to have a conversation with the state’s attorney. Maybe lay some groundwork before we haveto report back to the local prosecutor. Face-to-face, leaning into personal relationships. Trust. The intangible, often invaluable part of the legal system.

We had plans to meet later, after lunch. It’s barely eight. I haven’t heard a sound from upstairs, the two bedrooms where Jolene and Grace are staying.

“Canceled,” Artis says now. “Because of the storm.”

But his explanation is swallowed by the presence of the second man. The recognition crashing through me like a tsunami.

“You remember Dr. Westin, don’t you?” Artis says.

My eyes fall on his soft pale skin. The way it hangs looser from his cheekbones, framed by gray hair that was once sandy blond. Those sharp blue eyes, piercing through the lids that now weigh them down.

Yes, I know this man.

But I don’t speak. I can’t. There’s no air in my lungs.

“I thought he might be able to help,” Artis says as he kicks off his boots. Westin does the same, both men making themselves at home.

“Jolene said Grace is still not telling the truth about that night,” Artis continues.

I feel defensive now—like my skills are being questioned. But also, as if I’m a young girl sitting in a chair, across from Westin, in the office next to Dawn’s.

I make a note to myself about how Artis has framed things—that Grace is lying. A possibility, but we don’t know that yet. There’s still work to do.

Finally, words form and leave my mouth as I stand there in my sweats and a sweater, wool socks on my feet. “I didn’t realize you were still here,” I say to Westin.

Both men look confused now.