Page 43 of The Devil of Downtown

When the credits roll, I tense at the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Sloane steps inside, hair windswept, exhaustion written all over her face. She drops her heels by the door and sets her laptop bag on the counter with a thud.

“Hey,” I say, turning from the stove. “How’s things?”

Before she can answer, Elsie darts into the kitchen and waves her drawing in front of her. Sloane scoops her up with a tired laugh.

“I’m not drunk, I’m doing the splits—before you ask,” I tease, nodding toward the picture as Sloane pins it to the corkboard.

She chuckles lightly. “I didn’t say a word.”

“How was work?” I ask, trying to sound casual, while my stomach knots.

“God, today was brutal. Dane’s been at that conference all day—thank God, honestly. One less person breathing down my neck. Apparently, he’s staying one more day.”

My pulse stutters. “He won’t be there tomorrow?”

She shakes her head. “Mm-mm. I don’t think so.”

“Right.” I take a breath. “That’s... good.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. How was your audition?”

My lips curl into an involuntary grin. “I got it.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Featured role. Lorraine.”

Sloane’s face lights up, all fatigue melting away. “Ivy, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. We’ll have a night out to celebrate.”

Her excitement is pure and unfiltered, and guilt punches straight through me. I force a smile as she hugs me.

“Now I’ve got a role though,” I add. “Elsie will have to stay at the after-school club. I won’t be back in time for the school bus.”

“Don’t worry. I can pick her up on the way home from work. We’ll manage.”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning in for a hug. “We always do.”

Later, when she disappears down the hall to shower, I pull the blanket tighter around Elsie, who’s half-asleep against me. My chest tightens. Dane won’t be there tomorrow, so I haveone more night,I tell myself.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything.

I promise.

Chapter eleven

Dane

Julian leans back in his chair. “Where have you been? I was starting to think HR signed you up for that sensitivity course. You missed lunch on Sunday. Dad was spitting nails. You know it was to announce his engagement?”

I stretch out on the brand new couch in Julian’s office, sinking into leather that still smells factory-fresh. My gaze wanders past the glass wall to the city below—miniature people marching to work like wind-up toys.

“What’s with the therapy couch?” I mutter. “You moonlighting as a shrink now?”

“Stop being evasive,” Julian says. “First, you bail on lunch, then you vanish to some conference while we’re trying to close the Bexley deal—something I only found out about through Sloane.”

The name lands like a hit to the ribs.