by Emilia Finn
I risk a fast glance up, and feel the suckerpunch to my sternum when my eyes find Will Quinn in profile. He doesn’t see me, he doesn’t notice me here among a sea of other people moving about their day.
He looks exactly like he did four years ago, except perhaps a little bigger. A little harder. He wears a shirt just like I do, jeans and boots like I do, but he has no umbrella.
He fixes a black Indians hat low over his eyes, and shoves his hands into his pockets. The moment he steps off his tiny stoop and turns right, his shoulders soak through from the rain.
I follow when he starts walking in the direction of the studio, and stay back about fifty feet, since we both know he’s a guy who knows how to spot a tail. The rain is loud on the top of my umbrella, deafening, and drowns out the sounds of folks shouting, cars speeding, tires splashing through puddles.
We walk for a few minutes, but the closer we come to the studio, the more my smile creeps up. He’s going to see his baby. In all these years, he hasn’t changed a damn bit.
He crosses over when we’re near our destination, and jogs through traffic to get across, but I stay back, sinking into the shadows made by a tall building at my back, and watch as he swings open the glass front door to Matt’s Meat without hesitation.
Inside, Cam dances in front of the mirrors, and my breath comes to a complete stop. My heart gives an actual twinge, a shot of pain as she spins to the door with, first, a concerned frown, but then the smile she reserves just for him.
Cam wears black leg warmers like we’re in a movie from the eighties. A black leotard. Ballet slippers – the pointe kind – and a cute little skirt around her hips. When she spins, her back is all but naked, her hair tied up high into a bun, her smile as big as I remember it.
She doesn’t often smile so unrestrainedly, so when she does, it’s like a kick to the gut.
So fucking beautiful.
I wish I could be in the studio with the pair. I wish I could hear them. Instead, all I get is the sight of them, and that’s between ambling cars, farting buses, the smoke wafting from Joe’s hotdog stand, and sleeting rain.
Cam pulls back from her hug with her brother to speak about something – lips flying, hands moving like she’s Italian and needs them to emphasize many of her words. Her hair is a little messy, like she’s been dancing a while already, then, from a doorway on the other side of the studio, a dozen toddler ballerinas burst into the studio amid giggles and bouncing feet.
A flock of toddlers.
A drove of toddlers?
An army of toddlers!
A couple of moms – or at least, I assume they’re moms – follow the babies into the studio, fussing hands, bobby pins, hairbrushes. They help the little girls get ready for class while Cam moves away from her brother and shoos him to a corner, and all the while, the moms pretend they don’t see him.
They fix their hair, they tidy their shirts, and pop their asses so they look good in jeans. And the whole time, they pretend they don’t see the fighter just feet away.
The little girls – ten of them, by my fast count – try their best to form two lines. But Matt’s Meat isn’t a huge space, so when they form their lines, their tutus touch, and then their hands, and then one little girl tugs on another little girl’s skirt, and shit’s about to get dicey.
“All right!” Cam turns away from a stereo and claps her hands.
I can hear her words from out here.
She smiles for the children, moves amongst them, and helps them find their places, and every few steps, she pops up to her toes, because I guess she likes showing off.
Making her way back to the front of the class, she stretches her toes so the girls copy, then she does the same with her calves, her thighs. She ends it all with a pirouette – I’m not ashamed that I know the name of the move – but my brows draw close together when she lifts only one arm above her head.
I lean against the wall at my back, and narrow my eyes when she goes back to position – fourth; yeah, sue me, I know the moves – then she pirouettes again so her students copy, but that arm stays low.
She’s hurt herself. She’s babying that shoulder, and hell, but if I’m as mad at Cam as I tell myself I am, then why the fuck am I so worried about an aching shoulder?
Time passes, my jeans act as a sponge and absorb rainwater up past my boots, almost to my knees. But eventually, Cam’s class ends, the toddlers disperse without any tears, besides one bratty kid, then the moms continue to pretend like they’re not noticing every miniscule move Will makes. They pack their kids away, they palm cash to Cam like they’re paying for something coveted and illegal, then they herd the kids out again, to what I imagine is a minivan at the back of the building.
I stand in the rain under the eaves of a sandwich shop, and watch as Cam packs away a bunch of teddy bears – she had the girls walk in a large circle and balance the stuffies on their heads – and while I watch, I’m forced to admit that she’s doing what she wanted.
Maybe they’re toddlers, and not a massive Broadway production. Maybe Cam is choreographing children, and not professional, adult dancers. And maybe she’s doing it inside a butcher shop that doesn’t belong to her. But she’s smiling, she’s happy. She’s fucking ecstatic.
And, according to Soph’s intel, the majority of her money is coming from the place called Zeus’, which means this stuff at the quasi-studio is a passion project… something she’s doing just for fun.
Which is both beautiful and tragic, considering she’s squatting in someone else’s building.
Hours later, after Will leaves the studio, and Cam leaves out the back for what I assumed was just a moment – a bathroom break, or taking the trash out – but she didn’t come back after twenty minutes, I push away from the wall and fix the umbrella back over my head. I stop by Joe’s cart and buy a stale hotdog, because ‘when in Rome’. I wolf it down and pray it’ll fill my empty stomach, then I grab a to-go coffee from the deli on the corner.
It’s lunchtime, I’m starving, and Cam snuck out the back without saying goodbye.
Of course, saying goodbye would mean I have to show myself in the first place, but still.
I wander along the street and juggle my umbrella and coffee, only for my task to become more complicated when my phone rings, and my shoulder burns when I reach for it.
I hold the umbrella and the coffee in one hand, ignore the fire in my shoulder, and, taking my phone from my pocket, I swipe to accept the call, and bring the device up to my ear. “Soph.”
“It’s loud there. Are you at a waterpark or something?”
“Ha. No. What’s up?”
“A lovely chap by the name of Rupert has a package for you at your hotel. Said package contains everything you’ll need for your little soiree inside Zeus’ nightclub. You’ll get in without any problems. You don’t even have to sign in or speak to anyone. You have a card, so if a doorman wants to step in your way, you just flash the card and keep going.”
“Already?”
I check my watch, spill my coffee, hiss at the ache in my shoulder. I’m a fucking mess, and I’m already wet. So I offer the umbrella to a lady sitting at a bus stop, exposed to the rain, and continue walking when she startles and grabs it out of instinct.
“It’s only been a couple hours,” I say skeptically.
“Like I said,” she murmurs. “Magic. There are no secret passwords or bro-town handshakes.”
“Bro-town?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying. There’s no initiation or test to get in once you have that card. So walk on in and act like you belong there.”
“And if someone questions me?”
She huffs. “Show them the card! I literally just said that. The file is watertight, the card is legit, the membership is real. I also included a driver’s license under your fake name, so plop that into your wallet and take yours out and leave it at the hotel or something.”
“Okay… What’s my new name?”
“Spencer Serr
ano.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Wait. What?”
“He seems the type to have a membership at a titty bar, right?” She laughs. “Stand as tall as you can while in there. The rest will take care of itself. And if you do anything illegal and become the reason warrants are put out for Spence’s arrest, he said he’s gonna come looking for you, then he’s gonna stuff you with a skunk and make your mother smell your breath.”
“He said that?” I scrunch my nose and slow my walk as I approach the triple lock apartment. “That’s not a pleasant threat.”
“So don’t screw it up. Spencer knows things, and he’s not afraid of prison time.”
“Lies. His sweet wife will fuck him up if he’s sent away.”
She laughs. “Exactly. Which is all the more reason for him to take care of your body and dispose of you in such a way that you’ll never be found. Don’t screw it up. Ask at the hotel for your package. I told them you would sign for it, and they’re not to hand it to anyone except you. The lovely man told me you and he have already met, and assures me he will personally place the envelope in your palm.”
“Thanks.”
I stop walking when Cam’s front door opens, and back up until I slam against the concrete wall of the apartment three doors before theirs.
“He also told me to tell you to be careful,” she continues despite my half-attention. “He knows a guy with trouble in his eyes, and he knows you’re looking to get bruised up.”
“Rupert said that?”
“Uh huh. The guy is intuitive as hell, so watch your step. Oh, I see you.” She snickers under her breath as computer keys click in the background. “Look at you, hiding away from the big, bad ballerina.”
“I’m not hiding,” I murmur as Will and Cam stand at their open front door.
They speak for a moment; smiles, and then frowns.
“No?” Soph laughs. “That’s not what I see.”
“I’m observing,” I breathe out. “She’s got a bad shoulder. Can you see that?”
“No, kid. I can’t see from here. But that’s cute, no? You guys have matching injuries. Gonna make for some interesting fucking.”
“Can you stop saying shit like that? Jesus.”
“Why? You mad because you can’t have? Or because you’re horny, and have no way to deal with that right now?”
“Little bit of A,” I grunt out. “Little bit of B. Now hush. Will’s leaving. Where’s he going?”
Soph replies with a garbled, “I don’t know,” which sounds more like, ‘erdno.’
“Maybe to work,” she ponders. “They might be running from the law, but they still have to put food on the table.”
“Where does he work? Do you know?”
“Mm. Down at the dockyard – which is ironic, considering that’s where he worked before. I guess the docks don’t believe in snitching either. That, or they like hard workers and aren’t willing to lose him.”
“The docks are where the guy he supposedly killed went missing, right?”
“No, the docks are where that guy worked, and where Will met him. But he didn’t go missing there. Police reports say he went missing weeks after their meeting. He had checked in for work – not on the same shift as Will – then later, he checked out, spoke to his girl on the phone, was on the road, and bam. Gone. He didn’t arrive where he was going.”
“So they got him in transit. Who is the guy, Soph? Rich? Powerful? Related to someone rich or powerful?”
“Negative, Ghost Rider. He’s neither rich, nor powerful. He has no influence, and he didn’t party. He had a steady girlfriend, a shitty apartment, and a ficus plant that was doing just fine. He worked his shifts, drove a beat-up car, lived a happy life with his girl, and he got by. Then he just…”
“Disappeared.”
“Yup. And we both know folks don’t just disappear for no reason. Oh, and speaking of, I’ve been running some searches and looking for a couple missing kids. I’ve kept my net wide open, I’ve been pretty loose with the ages and dates, but either Cam and Will had no one that cared for them, and therefore no one to report them missing, or I haven’t looked wide enough.”
“Cam said her mom was a junkie. She said she was born premature because of her mother’s substance abuse, so that probably means they just weren’t reported missing.”
“Possibly.” Soph hums under her breath as she works. “Schools tend to report missing kids too. Which means they went missing without having started school.”
“So when they were barely toddlers?” I lean into the shadows as Will continues speaking to Cam on the doorstep. “I don’t know, Soph.”
“Not necessarily toddlers. He’s several years older than she is. So he was definitely school-aged when they bolted. That means their folks just didn’t care enough to enroll them?”
She works through her thoughts, and phrases her sentences like questions. Like she wants me to answer, though she gives me no time to do so.
“I’m gonna lean toward deadbeat parents,” she decides, “no school enrollments. Will is older, responsible. He would have helped smooth things over.”
“Why?” I frown. “Why would he smooth?”
“Because when kids go into the foster system, it’s not guaranteed that siblings will stay together. I bet he took care of everything to keep CPS off their backs. If the system had snatched them up, some upper-class family in Connecticut would have loved a baby ballerina. But they’d have left the older boy there to rot. No way was he running the risk of them being separated.”
“So it’s like…” I bring a hand up to rub at my temple. “Jesus. This shit is complicated.”
“Yup.”
“Multiple name changes? They ran from their folks when they were younger. They ran from the cops after the dude went missing. And now they’re running again. That’s at least three sets of names.”
“Right.”
“What are the chances of a couple kids needing to make themselves invisible once, let alone three times?”
“Slim to none,” Soph murmurs. “Shitty luck, for sure. They wanted out of the domestic situation they were born into, and I mean, loads of kids would do the same to get away from poverty and drugs. But, bonus for the guy who actually offed Nate Hardy, the Quinns are drifters. Someone pins a murder on the guy with no family, no ties, no history. Easy scapegoat. Send the guy away, problem solved.”
“And that’s assuming we believe Will didn’t do the offing.”
“Do you?” Soph asks quietly. “Do you believe he’s innocent?”
“Cam said he was.” I lean a little away from the wall to catch a glimpse of the brother and sister chatting. “She said he’s innocent.”
“Do you believe her?”
Yes. Unequivocally. “She also said she attended a wizarding school, so…”
“So when she lies, you know it. She doesn’t even try to be convincing.”
I sigh. “She was pretty fucking convincing about the part where her name is Cameron Quinn. She even had the boy name for a girl thing going on.”
“So maybe the boy name for a girl thing is fact,” Soph hedges. “There are lots of names that would fit the bill. Charlee. Drew. Alex. Chris.”
“Quinn,” I breathe out.
“Hmm?”
“Quinn is a name that can be used for boys or girls. It’s also the name she encouraged me to use when we, uh…”
Soph snickers. “Mmhm. Quinn. First or last name, could be related. I’ll add it to my net and see what pops.”
“She was a senior that first year we met. She was finishing up high school,” I explain. “Which means, at some point, they enrolled.”
“Yeah, once Will became an adult. I’d put money on it. He became her guardian, plopped her into school, helped her get at least her GED. She didn’t go on to college after high school. At least, she wasn’t in college when they visited Stacked Deck that second year. And I doubt she’s going now.”
“What she wants to do isn’t
taught at a regular college anyway.”
“Juilliard,” Soph sighs. “She wants dance. Not economics. Maybe I could cast my net a little further east. I mean, everyone knows about Juilliard. It’s a world-renowned school, but maybe she was just that little bit more invested because it was local to her.”
“Geez.” I exhale a gusty breath and swipe the side of my hand over my face. She’s so fucking close. Literally a shout away, and yet, I can’t touch. “A search like that is gonna burst your net wide open, Soph. There will be a lot of matches.”
“Well, that’s better than no matches, right? And I’ll add Quinn to the search and see what pops.”
She pauses when Will steps away from the door. Somehow, using her voodoo and her technology, she can see what I see. “Alright. He’s heading south; toward the docks.”
“Which means Cam is home.” Nerves batter at my stomach as she steps inside and slams the door. “Alone.”
“Do what you’re gonna do, fighter. But be careful… If you spook her, she’s skilled at burrowing and escaping. She’s been doing it her whole damn life. If you pounce too soon, she’s gonna bolt like a wild horse.”
“I don’t think I’ll approach her just yet.”
I study the door, the locks. Then I think of the dancing from earlier. The baby ballerinas. Best of all, the smile. She’s in hiding, and she said on the phone that she’s hurting. But she smiles when she’s in that studio.
That means something, and I’m not willing to break it just yet.
Victoria
Dance Class and a Date
After class with my toddlers, and then bologna sandwiches for lunch – plural because yum – I do the same thing I do almost every single weekday at one o’clock.
I switch our TV on, flip to YouTube – because we have a fancy TV now – and I go searching for either Sophia’s or Lucy’s channel. I attend class with these women on an almost daily basis, but I do it alone, in my living room, and I pretend that it’s not all as pathetic as it seems.
Over the years, Lucy’s channel has expanded from just being about her, as though we were voyeurs looking in, to her leading by instruction and addressing her audience.