Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,36
and scared of being outed on national TV, for fear of her or her brother’s death. But yeah, at least she got this small slice of her dream. I’m gonna come back tomorrow and see what I find.”
“Which is code for you’re gonna come back tomorrow and peek through the windows while she dances for you?”
“Yup,” I chuckle. “Something like that.”
“Alright, I’m finding more stuff on her. I’ll collate it all now and send you an email. Then you owe me ten thousand dollars for my time. I just spent a solid half hour on the phone with you. I don’t even talk to my husband this much.”
“Yeah, I’ll send you a check.” Not. “Thanks for this, Soph. You just got us closer than we’ve ever been before.”
“Closer than the cops are, too.”
I stop walking with an almost skid, turn back to the studio, and frown. “You’re not gonna tip the cops off, are you? That wasn’t part of our deal, Soph.”
“I’m not tipping anyone off,” she dismisses the notion with a verbal eyeroll. “Tipping is synonymous with snitching, and I’m not about that life. Mayyyyybe if this was a file still sitting on Oz’s desk, if it was still a problem for our favorite boys in blue, I’d feel a lick of guilt, but it’s not. I feel no loyalty to help another PD find and lock up a man whose guilt I question.”
“Cam said he’s innocent.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna conduct my own investigation,” she declares quietly. “I’ll decide if he’s guilty. Until I prove one way or the other, I’ll keep tabs on his whereabouts, but I’m not gonna snitch on the guy. She said to call your dogs off before you get her killed. Which means she has more than prison time to worry about. That means I’m intrigued enough to look around on my own.”
“I owe you one, Soph. Truly.”
“She’s a good dancer. She’s got talent, and I really like the way she gelled with Bean and the baby ballerinas. If you get her back to town without chloroform, I’ll open up a position at Ellie’s. Open-ended offer.”
“Seriously?” I stop on the corner of Joe’s Hotdogs and fourth, and wave down a cab when one ambles my way. “Just like that, you’d offer her a job?”
“She’s already had her job interview, handsome. One session with Bean and the babies. I know talent and grit when I see it. So sure, if she wants it, she can have it. But I’m not into non-consensual, so if she wants to stay there, then she stays there. I’m not hiring her if she ain’t here on her own terms.”
It takes only twenty minutes after I slide into a yellow cab to move from the rough end of town to something a little more upmarket. My hotel isn’t located in the rich side of town, but it’s also not a place requiring three locks – one of which being a Griffin.
I pay for my fare, slide out of the cab, step into the lobby, and move toward the bank of elevators. I’ve already checked in. Already dropped my bags in my room. I already ate and showered.
I left with the hopes that I would see Cam again tonight. I come back without seeing her, but at least I found her. I know with almost absolute certainty where she lives. And I know for a damn fact where she dances.
At some point tonight, we’ll both be sleeping, and it’ll only be twenty minutes away from each other, rather than two flights and an hour-long cab ride.
I don’t know where she is right now, I don’t know what time she’ll be home, and I have no clue what the hell she looks like nowadays.
But I know that tomorrow, I’ll see her, and I’ll either swing toward rage at the fact she left, or I’ll be back to promising to bow down for her.
Either way it goes, it’s bound to be noisy and mean.
Game on.
Jamie
Dance Class
“Zeus’?”
I recline on my bed the next morning – Wednesday morning – and read the email Sophia sent through at a little past one a.m. I scan the long email and try to focus on the bullet points. There’s too much to read, too much to absorb.
“What the fuck is Zeus’?” I ask no one.
I’m all alone in my room, my breakfast tray sits on the end of the bed beside my feet, empty but for the foil wrapper that once held a cube of butter.