CHAPTER ONE
Sloan
“I’ll think about it,” I tell my best friend, Sheila, when she begs me to come back to Cherokee Falls for the millionth time since college.
I laugh at her “Hell yes!” cheer as I peek into the mail slot and see a single envelope.
When I pull it out and read the front, my body goes on high alert. After promising to call Sheila back later, I end the call before dropping my phone and keys into my bag.
I look around before turning the envelope over in my hand again. Something about the handwriting on the front seems familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen it.
To My Almost Valentine
I slide my finger under the seal and pull the single page free. I don’t know who it’s from, but my heart races as I read the words written in the same script.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The past walks beside you
And smiles at you too.
Some words are remembered,
Some glances will stay,
They drift through the years
But don’t fade away.
Though no one has spoken,
And nothing is planned,
The one you still picture
May soon take your hand.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
My hand trembles as I pull the keys from my bag and unlock the door to my dance studio. As soon as I’m inside, I relock the front door and walk straight to my office in the back, closing that door as well. I’d usually leave the front door unlocked, but I’m still shaken after reading the letter. I’m tempted to call my sister, Becky, since she’s a detective now. But I don’t want to worry her over something that’s probably just a prank.
The truth is, I’m not easily shaken, so I don’t know why I’m having this reaction. It has to be the familiarity of the handwriting without being able to place it. Like some subconscious instinct is warning me to be wary of the writer. I haven’t let anything startle me this much since college, and I’ve worked too hard the past five years to regain my confidence to let something as innocuous as an anonymous letter send me back to the anxious mess I’d been then.
I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the trash can next to my desk. Then, I hear my sister’s voice in my head, telling methat if it’s not an innocent prank, the letter could be evidence. So, I pull the balled up paper back out and flatten it on my desk before refolding it and sliding it back into the envelope. I shove it in the top drawer with the rest of the envelopes containing things I’d rather forget.
I remove the sweats I’m wearing over my leotard and head to the back studio space. Despite my eviction from this building pending, I’m still going to enjoy every minute of the time I have left here. I don’t blame the owners for taking the offer they received. Especially since they offered to sell the building to me if I could match it. But I barely make enough to pay the rent and stay operational. With no other studio spaces for rent in Thorngrove, I’ll have to close Sloan’s Sassy Studio and look for a job this time next month.
I’m going to miss dancing. It’s been my life since I was old enough to do my first pirouette. While I love ballet, I chose not to join the Cherokee Falls Dance Company when I graduated from college. I was more than ready to get away from that town and come home. I opened my own studio where I can really enjoy the freedom of dancing in any style I choose, and I get to teach others to do the same.
“Damn it,” I mutter, thankful that I’m alone as I stumble through a routine that I shouldn’t have to think about. Between the letter I received and the memories of the torture I endured in college, I’m too far in my head to let my body flow in the way that usually comes naturally. When I miss the same step again, I give up and rush through a cool down before stomping back to my office.
I pull a bottle of water from the mini fridge and flop down in my desk chair. I should be using this time to review the finances for the studio. I need to make sure the final payments I’ll receive for classes this month will be enough to finalize my outstanding accounts before closing the doors. But instead, I let my mindwander back to college and the nemesis I ran away from when I graduated.
Seven YearsEarlier
“Heads up,” my friend, Sheila, whispers as we wait for our lattes at the coffee cart. “The Criminal Justice League is headed this way.”
