The train lurched, and I tightened my grip.
I needed to figure this out.
And whether I liked it or not, the only person who could help me was the same man I’d just called “autocratic” to his face.
Fantastic.
When the train reached my stop, I stepped out and climbed the stairs back into the gray afternoon. The air smelled like rain and exhaust. My apartment building loomed ahead, cracked bricks and peeling paint and all.
I pushed open the front door and trudged up the stairs. My key stuck in the lock again, and I jiggled it until it finally turned.
Inside, the apartment was dim and quiet. I dropped my bag on the couch and sank down beside it, burying my face in my hands.
I had no idea how I was going to fix this.
No idea how I was going to save Colin.
No idea how I was going to face Hector tomorrow.
But I’d have to.
Because I didn’t have a choice.
And because Lily had whispered “dance”and I wasn’t going to let that go.
Not for anything.
Not even for Hector Valdez.
CHAPTER 7
Hector
The security feedshowed Sarah sitting cross-legged on the floor beside my daughter. Lily held up a drawing, and Sarah leaned in to examine it. The angle made it impossible to see the page, but I watched Sarah’s face change—her smile reached her eyes this time.
I told myself I was monitoring Lily’s progress. That this had nothing to do with the argument three days ago, when Sarah stood in my office and told me I was wrong about my own daughter.
The audacity still sat wrong with me. Who was she to question my decisions? She’d known Lily for six months. I’d raised her for eight years. I’d been there when she took her first steps, said her first words, and learned to tie her shoes. I’d watched my wife die, and my daughter retreated into silence.
But Sarah Tinsley thought she knew better.
The feed showed Lily reaching for a purple crayon. Sarah said something I couldn’t hear through the speakers. Lily’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That small shift in posture was the kind of detail most people missed. Sarah didn’t miss it.
I pressed my fingers to my temple and looked away from the screen.
The accident replayed in my mind without permission. It always did when I thought about ballet, about Joana—about the before.
I’d been in the kitchen that afternoon. Three fifteen in the afternoon. I remembered because I’d glanced at the clock and calculated that Joana would have Lily at the studio by three thirty. I’d planned to have dinner ready when they returned. Risotto. Joana’s favorite. I’d been at the stove, stirring the arborio rice, adding stock in careful increments. The kitchen smelled like butter and white wine. Classical music played from the speaker on the counter.
My phone rang.
The spatula hit the floor before the officer finished his first sentence. “Your wife.” “Accident.” “You need to come now.”
The rice burned. I could smell it for days afterward, even after Mrs. Pearson cleaned the kitchen. That burnt smell followed me everywhere until I realized it wasn’t the kitchen. It was me. My clothes. My hair. My skin. Everything I touched carried the scent of something ruined.
I hadn’t cooked since.
The first time I tried—four months after the funeral—my hands started shaking before I could turn on the burner, my chest tightening as the kitchen walls pressed inward. I made it to the hallway before my knees gave out, and Mrs. Pearson found me sitting on the floor, breathing like I’d run a marathon.
