Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,14

and me are like this now.”

She tries to hold up her first and second finger intertwined, but she’s too uncoordinated to make anything but a peace sign. Which makes Marnie and me laugh all the harder.

“I better get you home, you idiot,” Marnie says to her.

Marnie and Serena share a flat over on Magnolia Ave. It’s only a five-minute Uber ride away.

“You wanna share a car?” Marnie asks me.

“I’ve got to go the other way,” I say. “I left my Jeep at the studio.”

“You can’t walk alone,” Serena says, trying to compose herself and be serious for a second.

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” I assure her.

I’ve only had the one drink, so I figure I’m good to walk back to Lake City Ballet.

We part ways at the door, Marnie helping to support Serena while they wait for their Uber, and me heading off down Roscoe Street.

Even though it’s late, Chicago is too busy a city for the streets to ever be truly empty. Plenty of cars are driving by, and the roads are lit by the high rises and the old-fashioned street-lamps. A couple of teenagers on skateboards zip past me, shouting something I can’t make out.

However, as I turn down Greenview, the sidewalks become more deserted. It’s chilly. I wrap my arms around myself, walking quickly. My purse bounces against my hip. I’ve got the strap slung across my body so nobody will try to grab it. I wonder if I should take out my keys—I have a little canister of pepper spray attached to my keychain, just in case. It’s six years old, though, so who knows if it still works.

I don’t know why I’m feeling paranoid all of a sudden. My skin feels prickly and stretched, and my heart rate is picking up more than the brisk walk deserves.

Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I think I hear footsteps behind me. They seem a little too quick, like the person is trying to catch up to me.

Pausing at the corner of Greenview and Henderson, I sneak a glance over my shoulder.

There’s definitely a man about a hundred yards back. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, hands stuffed in the pockets and hood pulled up. His head is down so I can’t see his face.

He’s probably just headed home, the same as me. Still, I cross the road and start walking even faster. I don’t want to keep looking back to see if he’s gaining on me. I feel the urge to start running.

I see Lake City Ballet up ahead, with my white Jeep still parked out front. The rest of the lot is deserted. Everybody’s long since gone home.

I slip my hand into my purse, feeling for my keys as I walk. I want to have them ready to open the car door. I feel my phone, my Chapstick, a coin . . . no keys though. What the hell? It’s not even a large purse.

The dance studio is locked and dark.

I know the door code. All the dancers know it, since we’re allowed to come practice whenever we like.

When I’m a half-block away, I break into a run. I sprint toward the studio, uncertain whether the pounding footsteps I hear are my own, or somebody following me.

I reach the door, madly trying to punch in the code: 1905. The year Anna Pavlova first performed “The Dying Swan.” Jackson is a little obsessed.

My fingers fumble over the keypad and I punch the numbers in wrong twice in a row, before the lock finally clicks, and I can pull the door open.

I shove it closed behind me, turning the latch and pressing my forehead against the glass, peering out into the darkness. My heart is racing, and my hands are sweaty on the handle. I expect to see some maniac charging toward me, brandishing a knife.

Instead I see . . . nothing at all.

There’s nobody on the sidewalk. Nobody following me. The guy in the hoodie probably turned down another street without me even noticing.

I’m such an idiot. I’ve always had a wild imagination, for better or for worse. When I was little I had the craziest nightmares, and I was always sure they were real, no matter how impossible it might be for my sister to turn into a tiger, or to find a dozen severed heads in our fridge.

I sink down to the floor, looking through my purse for my keys once more. There they are—in the little side pocket where they always reside. I was just