Just the thought of my suspicions being a tiny bit true made my stomach slither and slide into my feet.

Keeping my phone on vibrate, I’d forced myself to eat a salad sandwich. With my stomach churning, the struggle was hard even though I was lightheaded from hunger.

Avoiding fellow employee stares and unwilling to be sociable, I opened an internet browser, falling down the rabbit hole of news sites and murder investigations.

With shaking hands and racing heart, I read more details on the latest killing, skimmed hypothesises, and drank up potential descriptions from so-called witnesses.

The vague description was a man wearing a baseball hat. No distinguishing features like hair colour or tattoos. Just a masculine shadow.

Gil had never worn a baseball hat in his life.

Was it purely a disguise or was his wardrobe yet another thing I knew nothing about?

You know so little...

I gritted my teeth.

I know his heart. That doesn’t change.

I sighed, tracing my thumb over the picture of the girl killed last night, following the artistic shadows and splashes of bluebells painted on her lifeless thigh.

Are you sure? Hearts can change. Hearts can camouflage into strangers.

Shaking my head, I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag. It felt a thousand times heavier than normal as I tossed out the rest of my lunch and went back to work.

* * * * *

The work day was over.

Employees slowly filtered from the building, heading home to loved ones.

I literally had nowhere to go.

My apartment wasn’t safe. Gil wasn’t safe. Justin couldn’t be expected to babysit me.

I didn’t know where to go and I still didn’t have enough information.

And I needed it fast so I could make up my mind on what to trust: my heart or my mind.

My heart urged me to return to Gil and tell him how I felt. To provide a non-judgemental, totally accepting environment in which he could spill his every revelation. But my mind cursed me for being such a stupid fool. It wanted to call the police. To use the card the female officer had provided and ask outsiders for advice.

And because both options weren’t practical, I had to rely on myself to make a correct, informed decision. Just as I’d had to rely on myself to cook, clean, and study when I was young. The one lesson my parents taught me well: independence was hard and lonely, but it meant you were strong no matter the situation.

As the last of the staff left for the day, my fingers flew over the keyboard.

I inputted every parameter I could. I read online articles and trawled through facts.

Gilbert Clark.

Murdered girls.

Previous Birmingham killings.

Maps of the forests and parks where the girls had been found.

Body paint supply stores.

Other body painters in England.

Bad publicity on Total Trickery, good press, negative reviews, glowing feedback.

I diligently did my research all while earning a chest full of frustrated heartbeats and a headache of confusion.

Nothing hinted that Gil could be involved.

The longer I stayed online, the more I hated myself for doubting.

I wanted so, so much to trust my heart. I wanted to be brave enough to return to Gil’s and ask him point blank where he was last night. Why he’d vanished for the second time. Why he’d been traipsing around in the undergrowth. Why my instincts told me there was more to his life than he’d told me. More darkness. More pain. More sin.

But all I could think about were his muddy boots.

Size eleven.

Same as the killer.

I needed more time.

Time where no one could find me.

Using the elevator, I left work by the back entrance in case Gil waited for me in the foyer like last time. Stepping out into narrower streets, I tucked my dark blonde hair beneath a grey scarf stuffed in my purse.

Jamming hands into my blazer pockets, I weaved with end-of-day foot traffic, making my way from the work district to the more artsy side of town. Where small theatres hugged street corners and posters displaying colourful dancers decorated lampposts.

Stepping into the area where I’d practiced my art before moving to London, I struggled not to cry.

I missed dance.

I missed the smell of musty picture houses and papery playbills.

I missed Gil even while I hid from him.

Dance practice had finished for the day for full-time staff, and it seemed no after-school classes were held tonight as I slipped into the studio where I’d first been noticed by the London Dance Company. I’d sweated and cried and flown on endorphin highs in rooms that all looked similar.

Mirrored and wooden floored, a simple stage for a ballerina.

I no longer belonged here.

My accident had stolen that right.

The door clicked behind me; the heavy silence of the space hugged me tight.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deep.

Tears sprang to my eyes as leotards and ballet slippers and sweet piano notes pirouetted on my senses.

I was safe here because no one would expect me to come. Those who used to know me had grown used to my absence, and those who didn’t would never know what each dance studio—no matter where they were—meant to me.

Dropping my purse on the piano stool, I kicked off my heels and placed my silenced phone on the polished wood of the ivory-keyed instrument.

Ten more missed calls from Gil since lunch.

Ten more times I didn’t answer because I had no idea what to say.

I wanted him to tell me everything.

But I was too in love with him to hear the truth.

Innocent.

Guilty.

Both came with complications I wasn’t strong enough to bear.

Balancing on my toes, I spun in my stockings on the slippery wooden floor and closed my eyes. I ignored the twinge in my back where surgeries had given me the gift of mobility but taken away lithe grace. I clenched my teeth against the tightness and restriction of stolen movement. Notes of music whispered around me, and I danced...alone.

My arms rose like useless wings as I glided and spun.

My childhood found me as it so often did when I released myself from adulthood. I remembered the loneliness of having parents who didn’t really care. I basked in the happiness of knowing Gil loved me enough for any missing or absentee family. My arms fanned out to hug the teenage boy who owned my soul. The music in my veins spread louder, faster, and I answered the summons.

I threw myself into the air, performing a move I’d perfected. The grand écart en l'air had been my favourite. I found it so easy. So effortless to soar from one leg to another and slice my legs into splits at the highest point.

My teacher and employer said no one could bend as much as I could in full flight.

My eyes stayed closed as I relived the sensation of being unbelievably good at something that didn’t require skill or repetition—it was just a gift. My body’s gift. My soul’s purpose. My life’s design.

But unlike so many other hundreds of times, I didn’t land weightless and elegant. I didn’t manage to kick and split. I didn’t have that priceless gift anymore.

My ruined back seized mid-bend.

My healed bones and stitched together muscles hadn’t forgotten the punishment they’d endured.

I landed with a teeth-rattling jar on my knees, bowing on the floor before mirrors that’d witnessed my failure.

And my silenced phone vibrated against the piano.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks as I accepted the physical pain as well as emotional. I’d come here to torture myself deeper. To layer more agony. It might not have been intentional but the pain was double as I crawled toward the piano and grabbed my phone.

It stopped ringing; I slouched against the mirrors and stared blankly at the screen.