What She Saw - 36

Sloane

“You look troubled.”

Grant’s comment rose above the din of the restaurant crowd. “What do I look like when I’m troubled?”

“More intense. Like you’re ready to break into a house or steal something to relieve the pressure.”

That prompted a nod. “I should smile more.”

He looked amused, as if he expected a punch line. “What does it feel like when you smile?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It feels like nothing. But I recognize that it’s effective. People tend to relax when I smile.”

“You were smiling when you spoke at CrimeCon.”

“Conference Sloane smiles because people react well.”

He sipped his coffee. “When we were alone in your room, were you pretending then?”

Sexual satisfaction was a connection I didn’t have to fake. “No.”

Grant nodded, setting down his mug. “Why do you break into houses?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does bending or breaking the rules really ease the pressure?”

The question hit close to home. He’d been a cop. He’d interviewed people like me who’d crossed the legal lines much further than I ever had. He had a good sense of who I was. “It can. And it can also be an effective way of gathering information.”

“It’s not legal.”

I grinned. “Trackers fall in a gray area.”

He grimaced. “Stick to the stoic face.”

I liked him. He didn’t judge me or try to change me.

“Why would Brian Fletcher report his daughter as missing if she wasn’t?” he asked.

“Taggart remembered Tristan at the festival. She wasn’t the prim and proper dancer in Brian’s images. She was darker and wilder. He chocked that up to kids and stupid choices. He never expressed any doubts about Brian Fletcher’s story in his notes.”

“Do you think Colton knew that Tristan was alive?”

“Very good question.”

“I’ll have Colton’s complete visitor logs tomorrow.”

“The pictures on Brian’s family room wall suggest he knows she’s alive.” Frustration tinted my words.

“You sound very convinced.”

“Even carrying such a terrible secret, Brian Fletcher couldn’t resist displaying both his daughters’ images.”

“The truth finds a way to leak out.” He studied me with sharp hawk eyes.

“Did Brian Fletcher have an insurance policy on Tristan?”

“I can check.”

I leaned forward a fraction. “I bet he did not. If he lied, he didn’t do it for money. His house is a memorial to his family.”

“Why lie?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I’ll join you.”

I almost rejected the idea but considered his connections might be of help. “You’ll have to hold back. People tend to talk more when I don’t have a cop standing beside me.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not a cop anymore.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, but you still look like one. That’s all that matters.” I was anxious to get on the road.

“You’re the boss.”

The drive took three hours. Grant drove and I scrolled my phone, searching for any trace of Susan Westbrook or Lannie Fletcher. Lannie didn’t hide herself from the world. But other than the one picture I’d seen of Susan at a fundraiser, she had no profile. Susan had owned the Dance Studio in Northern Virginia for nearly twenty years. Her studio had an excellent reputation and always had a waitlist. The publicity photo of Susan featured her lithe body dressed in a ballet skirt. Her blond hair was fashioned in a tight bun, and she stood straight and graceful in pointe shoes. But her face was turned from the camera, so anyone who looked at the image wouldn’t recognize Tristan Fletcher.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in Northern Virginia. Grant wound his way off the beltway toward the side street in Falls Church. He parked in front of the Dance Studio.

The white brick building had tall windows reflecting the outside world. The facade created an illusion of light and brightness while it blocked out the world. Smoke and mirrors.

A couple of vans parked out front, and two moms helped little girls dressed in pink leotards and tulle skirts. Each wore sneakers, and they all carried little matching bags. One of the mothers opened the front door, and both moms watched as the girls scurried toward the door. They were giggling, laughing at each other’s jokes. They vanished inside. For a moment, I saw shiny wood floors, a mirror, and barres. The door closed.

The girls’ joy was a curiosity to me. I’d felt accomplishment and sometimes contentment, but joy had always eluded me.

“Did you ever take dance classes?” Grant asked.

“Sara, my grandmother, enrolled me in a tap-dancing class when I was six. But I lasted two lessons.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“One of the girls, Daphne, was the best dancer. And she was good. I was impressed.”

“But?”

“She bullied another slower, awkward girl. Everyone acted as if it was a regular thing. It made me mad to watch that little kid doing her best not to cry. So I bodychecked Daphne.”

“Good for you.”

I shrugged. “That bully lost her balance and hit the floor. Her face smacked the wood hard. The impact bloodied her nose. All the girls freaked out. The teacher was appalled. I was not invited back.”

“Did that bother you?”

“No. She had no right to be cruel to that other girl.”

“Is there a soft spot in that dark heart of yours?”

I shrugged. “Sara wasn’t surprised, but she also wasn’t happy. She lost her deposit.” The cramp in my chest reappeared. Looking back, I realized how hard it had been for her to scrape together the money for those lessons.

“Would you have hit her if you’d known Sara would lose her money?”

“I’d have been more careful.” I couldn’t picture any of these little dancers getting into a fistfight. Laughing, smiling, and giggling, they were the picture of happy children.

“If you’d been my kid, I’d have taken you out for ice cream.”

Six-year-old me could have used an ice cream that day. I didn’t understand how I’d been painted as the bad guy. I’d stopped a bully. Another van pulled up in front of the studio. Another mom and tiny dancer hurried toward the door.

“Time for me to ask a few questions,” I said.

“In the studio?”

“To that mother. Stay here.”

I rose out of the car, combed my fingers through my hair, and tucked in my shirt. I crossed the street and reached the van as the mother approached. She was short, muscular, and had tied back her blond hair into a dancer’s bun. She looked a lot like the other two mothers.

“Excuse me,” I said, smiling.

The woman faced me, her gaze wary as she studied me. I smiled and downshifted my demeanor to relaxed. “Sorry to bother you. I’m curious about the Dance Studio. I have a six-year-old, and she’s determined to learn ballet. Do you have a moment to tell me about the Dance Studio?”

The woman didn’t look convinced. Her fingers tightened around her keys. “It’s great. We’ve been here for a couple of years.”

“I hear Susan Westbrook is good.”

“She’s strict, and she expects perfection from the girls. But she gets amazing results.”

“Strict is good. My little girl has lots of energy.” If I had a little girl, I couldn’t imagine her lasting more than a few lessons.

“She’ll learn to channel her energy into dance. Miss Susan runs a tight ship.”

Miss Susan sounded a little authoritarian. “That’s great. Do you think I could slip inside and watch the class for a moment?”

“They don’t like outsiders. The receptionist is a pit bull.”

“Good to know.” I found my warmest smile. “Thanks.”

Some of the woman’s wariness eased. “Sure. We’ll see you around.”

I entered the building and crossed to the reception desk. Beyond it was a large studio populated by a collection of little girls all dressed the same and standing in the center of the room. A woman appeared from the back, and she clapped her hands. Her delicate frame was wrapped in a leotard and a gauzy skirt that skimmed above her knees. There wasn’t an ounce of extra fat on her body. The girls stopped talking and giggling. Susan Westbrook.

Susan was petite and lean and secured her blond hair in a smooth ponytail. She lined up the girls in a straight line and walked along the row, seeming to inspect their outfits. She paused to straighten a hair clip or adjust a tutu that had gone askew.

The girls appeared to enjoy her attention, and when she moved to the front of the room and struck a pose, they all mimicked her.

“Can I help you?” The question came from a thin, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’ve heard a lot of good things about this studio. I have a six-year-old who loves dance.” The trick to lying was to keep it simple.

“We have a waiting list. But I can give you an application. We’ll add your daughter to the list once we have your deposit.”

“Great.” I looked at the application as if I cared. “Do you mind if I watch the class? I’ll stay back here.”

“Just be very quiet. And don’t move beyond this desk.”

“Of course.” For the next thirty minutes Susan led the girls in a series of dances. The tiny dancers’ movements were rigid in a Stepford Wives kind of way.

A poster advertised a recital scheduled for Saturday. This must be the last big practice session before the show. The receptionist glanced at me several times. In the last thirty minutes, she’d determined that I didn’t fit in this suburban world.

I watched for a few more minutes but saw nothing of real interest. As I turned to leave, I remembered manners helped. “Thanks,” I whispered.

I left the studio and walked across the street, aware that the receptionist was watching me. I slid into the passenger seat. “Susan Westbrook is leading the class.”

He fired the engine. “The place looks legit.”

I glanced at the Dance Studio brochure. “It says she trained and danced in Seattle. Thirty-one years ago, it would’ve been easier to re-create herself across the country. She opened this studio twenty years ago. The kids and mothers seem to love her.”

Grant pulled into traffic. “The most we could get Brian Fletcher and Susan Westbrook on would be filing a false report. And after thirty-one years, no one would care.”

“Brian is a straight arrow.”

“Even straight arrows will lie to protect their children.”

“Sara told a few lies on my behalf, but that was more to protect herself than me.”

“Many parents will do anything to protect their child.”

“Would you?”

Grant nodded. “I would.” He parked in front of a place called Presidential Burger. “You look like you could eat. You didn’t eat a lot of breakfast.”

“Sure.”

We both ordered burgers, fries, and sodas, and found a booth in the corner. I focused on the food, sensing it was going to be a late night. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to approach Susan, but I needed to wait until the children and parents had cleared out from the studio.

As I sat, I imagined Tristan’s father panicking and calling in a false missing person report. I didn’t have a lot of stats on Susan yet. She could be a legitimate cousin. But I had serious doubts.

“If I get a DNA sample, can you test it against DNA from Brian Fletcher?” I asked.

He wiped his hands with a napkin. “How are you going to get samples from them?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Gently, Sloane. Adults who bodycheck other adults get arrested.”

“I get it.” I glanced at my watch. “The studio closes at eight o’clock. I’ll be there when she leaves.” The burger that had tasted so good now felt heavy in my stomach. “I hate waiting.”

“In your line of work, I’d think you’d be used to it.”

“I still don’t like it.” I picked up a fry. “Do you like waiting?”

“I’ve accepted the wheels of justice can move slow.”

“But you hate it?”

“What I hate is when good work is undone, and bad people are set free.”

“You have no doubts about Colton? At the trial, his attorney made a decent argument that Taggart planted the evidence.”

“Colton is slick. He’s a salesman at heart.”

“What was he like when you interviewed him?”

“Charming. Almost pleasant to be around. He’s popular with the guards and the inmates.”

“Are you sure he’s guilty?”

He was silent for a moment. “He’s never proven otherwise, despite the lawyers who he charmed into taking his case. And until anyone proves otherwise, I don’t want him released. His doctors say he’s sick, but who knows. He could still hurt someone else if he gets out. He’s had thirty-one years to think about what he’d do to everyone who wronged him.”

His intensity was attractive. The air between us crackled. At least it did for me. I couldn’t read him well, which made him more interesting. “This is a first for me.”

“What?”

“I’ve learned to key off others’ emotions. But I can’t read you.”

Another unfathomable half smile. “Nothing to see here. I’m a simple creature. I want a bad guy to stay in jail.”

“You’re not simple. Not by a long stretch.”

“Is this the part where we talk about feelings?”

My laugh rang genuine. “God, no.”

“So, what’s the point of this banter?”

“Sexual tension, Grant. You’re not feeling it?”

Blue eyes darkened. “The Dance Studio doesn’t close for hours. And there’s a hotel down the street. That direct enough for you?”

“It is.”

The hotel was generic, uninspiring, but it was clean. I let my backpack slide off my shoulder to a chair angled by a small round table. Grant closed and locked the door behind us.

The two double beds were covered in a light green-gray-blue bedcover. The nightstands were polished. But the buttons at the base of the lamp were ringed with dust.

I removed my shirt as I kicked off my shoes. When I faced Grant, he stood still, staring at me. I stepped toward him.

My fingertips skimmed the top of his belt buckle, and I kissed him on his lips. He tasted like the mint he’d grabbed as we’d walked out of the diner.

His hand came to my waist, and he pulled me toward him. My fingers slipped below his belt to his erection. Orgasm was something I could feel. I’d been so stunned by my first, I’d avoided contact with men for a while. Like a drug addict’s first hit of heroin, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life chasing the highs.

His hands slid to my breasts and squeezed. Energy shot through me.

He removed his shirt as I unfastened his belt buckle. His pants slid to the floor. He yanked back the bed covering, and I landed on clean white sheets. I shimmied out of my jeans and kicked them aside. The mattress sagged as he climbed on. Hovering above me, he kissed me on the lips. I skimmed my fingertips down his flat belly and wrapped my fingers around his erection. The phantom fist, always in my chest, tightened.

My heart pulsed faster. I could have been speeding down a highway, slipping into a stranger’s home, or climbing on a roof as I searched for an adrenaline release. Impatient, I guided him to me. He pushed inside me. My nerve endings tingled.

A grunt rose in his chest as he filled me. I pushed my hips up toward him. He pumped. My fingers slid to my center. Soon we were both panting and riding a big wave.

The crash came, as intense as it would be fleeting. When I came, he came. And for a moment, my heart pulsed. Okay. This was acceptable. This was what people felt.

I rose from the bed and sat on its edge. This was always the awkward part. The part of sex that I didn’t connect with.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” I glanced back, smiling.

Staring at me, he rolled on his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “You look upset.”

“I’m not. That was great.”

“Did you enjoy what just happened?” he asked.

“I did. I find your company pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“It was intense. Freeing.” When I’d orgasmed, the tightness building in my skull had eased.

His expression was hard to read. “From you, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Take the win.”

He smiled.

I’d never done a good job of explaining myself to anyone. But I could change that with him. “Sara said that Patty would get frustrated with me when I was a baby. Patty told Sara that I wasn’t an easy baby. I didn’t act like the other babies.”

“Not fitting into the crowd isn’t always bad.”

“Most people like humans that conform. Humans are pack animals by nature and are suspicious of the lone wolf.”

I wasn’t sure why I was trying to explain myself. This wasn’t like me, and yet, I felt he needed to understand. “I’ve tracked down several family members of the victims.”

“And?”

“They’re a little like me. They all have a wound. They see and feel their injuries. Even after thirty-one years, they struggle not to cry. When I watch these folks cry, I wonder what it feels like.”

“Does it bother you that you don’t cry?”

“No. It’s a blessing, given my life and what I do.”

“How do you experience the world?”

This was the most I’d ever talked about my lack of feelings. “I’m in a glass jar. I can see the world. I can see sadness and joy. But the glass keeps it all at a distance.”

“Do you ever want to get out of the jar?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure I could write this article if I reacted like everyone else. So, like I said, it’s a blessing.”

He moved beside me. He didn’t speak for a long time. “But it bothers you.”

“It does. And it doesn’t.” But pain and pleasure are connected. Hard to enjoy one without the other. “What we just experienced is as close as I come to feeling something.”

He kissed me on the lips, his hand sliding to my belly. I closed my eyes because I’d learned when I stared back, my pointed gaze creeped out my partners.

“Do you want to feel something again?” he asked.

“I could be convinced.”

He took my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s see if we can break that glass jar.”

Several hours later, Grant sat behind the wheel of his truck, parked in front of the Dance Studio.

I dug in my purse and pulled out the tracker. “Thought your tracker could come in handy.”

He chuckled. “Okay.”

I slid out of the truck and jogged across the street. The group inside was breaking up, giving me a few minutes. I dashed down an alley to the small parking lot. There were three cars. A small four-door Toyota, a Kia, and a white van. The van had plates that read “TD Studio.” I took that as my hint and hurried toward it. I attached the tracker to the back rear tire well.

I walked back to the front of the studio as the last mom-daughter combo was leaving. Susan was closing the door when I pushed back on the glass. “Susan?”

She hesitated. Her gaze grew wary. “Yes.”

“I’m Sloane Grayson.” This time I didn’t bother with a lie. “Do you have a moment?”

“It’s been a long day. Call my front desk for an appointment.”

I didn’t relax my grip on the door. There’d be no easing into this conversation. “Do you know Tristan Fletcher?”

Susan’s face paled. “No. Should I?”

“I think you do.”

She stiffened. “Go away.”

“I can’t. Not until we talk.”

“I don’t know who you are, but I have nothing for you.”

“You look scared.”

She shoved me back, then closed and locked the door.