Page 57 of Blade

A moment passes before I answer.

“She was a skater—when I was here.”

If he was talking to them about Indy, what else has he told them? About Jolene and Hugo? About Kayla and the trucker? The one who turned up dead years later?

About me?

Jill continues, unaware of the panic coursing through my body. I hold a hand over my mouth so she can’t hear the breath that heaves in and out.

“My source said Emile wasn’t just giving them a fluff piece to justify why he was leaving The Palace. He was trying to burn it to the ground. Apparently with things that happened a long time ago,” she says.

Things that happened to us. The Orphans.

“The list of suspects besides Grace is spectacular!” Jill says, excited now about the case. “Anyone from the past with a secret they didn’t want told—and anyone with something to lose if Emile’s exposé ran. That should buy you some time until the girl sorts out her bullshit story. My gut says she’s covering for someone.”

I think about Grace waiting for me back at the condo. Her words last night.

It’s not safe here.

It’s all your fault.

“Ana?”

“I’m here. Sorry—yeah,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to her again—tell her about the article.”

Jill’s voice grows concerned. “Hey—listen—I know this can’t be easy. I know you hated it there.”

She has no idea. I’ve shared little of my past with her. With anyone in my life.

“I’m okay.”

“Take care of yourself—right? Focus on the client. That always helps you.”

“I will,” I promise her, though I feel like a different version of myself. Not the one she knows, but the one who never really left Colorado.

No—that can’t be true. I did leave. I moved on. All of this is behind me.

The call ends, but I stay right here, staring over the headlights.

My instincts feel disorganized, triggered by the past and the thought of what Emile has disclosed.

A wave of heat flushes my body, and I roll down the window, desperate for cold air. The snow pricks my skin, and my eyes water, but I don’t care.

We all heard Indy tell that story. And now Emile has been killed with the heel of a blade.

And now—oh God. A memory rushes in, and I wonder—did Dawn know about that story? About Kayla and the way she raised her skate in the air when she was lashing out at the mothers in the stands?

Yes—God, yes.Dawn knew, I realize as the memory plays.

I was so desperate to help Indy. She couldn’t stop falling. Everyone had failed her. Her mother. Dr. Westin, who told her it was all in her head. Self-sabotage. He told her to fight the fear and get the height, the rotation, the landing. Once she retrained her brain, she would stop hesitating on the takeoff. He told her to read the book.

Yes, yes.

And then what?

It comes back now in one flood, one punch to the gut. Dinners at her house. She would pick me up on the corner so no one would see us. Her car smelled of leather and perfume. She played classical music. She hummed along to it. And then the table—always set with linen place mats and fine crystal. She said it was important to appreciate the finer things in life.

And that one night, when I was quiet, searching for courage.