Ever notice how some of the most devastating, life-altering days start off like any other? You wake up thinking about what you have to do that day. What you're going to wear. How you're going to pay your bills.

You go about your day, knocking things off your to-do list. You go to school. To work. Hang out with friends. Flirt with that guy you've been crushing on. Contemplate going on a diet.

You don't wake up thinking: I could die today.

At least I didn't.

I certainly never thought that I'd already met my executioner.

Then again, how are you supposed to know that? It used to be that you could tell the bad guys from the good guys. The bad guys had that creepy, disheveled, "you should cross the street" look. They wore all black, or had crazy-eyes, or talked to themselves. They just looked sinister. Which made it easy to avoid them and the danger they brought.

Unfortunately, the world has changed. And the scary thing is that some of the most devious people seem normal. They're attractive, charismatic, non-threatening. They look like you or me, which of course, encourages you to let down your guard, allowing them to get close enough to—

Well, let's just say, the results aren't pretty.

So how can you tell the good guys from the bad?

You can't.

Until it's too late.

The blood was flowing freely now. A rust-colored stain, which had been the size of a quarter at the beginning of the hour, had now spread to that of a silver dollar pancake.

Who thinks of pancakes while they are bleeding all over the place?

Apparently you do, the snarky voice inside my head responded, when you choose to skip breakfast in lieu of getting to class early.

A small price to pay to stake my claim at the barré before the other vultures get here, I responded to it.

I shook the thoughts away as I realized I was having a conversation with myself. Again. This happens a lot when you spend most of your time inside your own head. Sure, I had actual people to talk to—a few that I would even call friends—but more often than not, I was alone. There was only one thing that occupied my mind more than myself.

Dance.

"Emmalynne, you're up!" a slight yet stern voice called out above the twinkling of piano notes.

I turned to see my ballet mistress, Miss Diane, looking at me expectantly and counting out sets of eight to the music. I'd been caught red-handed—or as the case was, red-footed—and I knew at once that all the extra time I'd spent in the studio that week had been nullified with this single stupid move on my part.

There was nothing the teachers at The Richmond Ballet Company hated more than a dancer who wasn't paying attention. Well, except for a bad instep maybe.

With one last look down at my bloody foot, I pushed my thoughts and the pain I was feeling away, and took a few delicate steps forward. Then, as if I were weightless—and at 5'5" and 102 pounds, I practically was—I moved across the floor, performing a series of turns and leaps until I'd reached the other side of the studio. Sauté arabesque, balancé en tournant, run, run, run, grand jeté. Which, in layman's terms, meant: slide hop, dancy grapevine with a turn, run, run, run, end with a big leap. Only in French. And more graceful than it sounded.

As I finished, I brought my feet together, toe touching heel, and let my arms curve down into a low oval shape near my thighs. I knew the combination had been damn-near perfect, and had I not just pissed off my teacher, I would've been satisfied with myself. Instead, my face remained neutral as I tip-toed to the back of the line with my tail between my legs.

The best I could hope for now was to remain invisible for the rest of the class. Or if I was lucky, another dancer would mess up and draw the focus away from me.

I know that sounds horrible—wishing someone else would screw up, fall, forget the combination, sloppily land their quad turn—but if you were like me, a ballerina in one of the most prestigious companies in Northern California, you'd be thinking the same thing. I mean, you might feel bad about it, but you'd still think it.

"Way to piss off the Miss," a voice said quietly in my ear. "Are you trying to give the others a chance to snag your swag?"

I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. After all, there was only one person who talked to me like that.

"Of course not, Zhara," I whispered back. "I was just having a bit of...trouble. Of the bleeding variety. I got distracted for a second, gimme a break, okay? You'd think a girl could expect at least that much from her partner."

He took a step away from me, and then held up a hand, signaling for me to stop.

"Ew, girrrl, that is so not cute. I thought you were all over that mess," Zhara said, circling his finger in front of my midriff. "Isn't that one of the perks of being a teeny-tiny little thing like you? No more girly drama."

"Gross, Zhara," I said, making a face at him, realizing that he thought I was on my period. "And wrong part of the body."

I lifted my foot up into the air gracefully, until it was level with his face. If anyone were watching, it would look like I was just stretching, not socializing with one of my closest friends. Luckily, the fact that we were paired up on the floor gave us an excuse to interact with each other. If we were ever caught talking, we'd just play it off like we'd been discussing partner work. And with a motormouth like Zhara for a partner, the pretext came in handy more often than you'd think.

Zhara glanced at the half moon of blood spreading up from my toe shoe, and realization set in. The sight didn't alarm him—quite the opposite, actually. This he was used to seeing. Ballerinas were always suffering from one injury or another. Just came with the territory.

"New shoes?" he asked instead, turning his attention back to Miss Diane, who was already calling out the next sequence we were to perform across the floor.

I nodded. As annoying as it was, it always took several classes to make new shoes danceable. That's why so many ballerinas wore their slippers until they literally fell apart. Most of your toes hanging out of your soles? Still good to dance on. Binding bent but not completely broken? Leap away!

But we had auditions coming up in less than a month and my old shoes weren't going to hold up over that time. And since the "breaking-in" process was so painful, I had to start dancing in them now if I wanted to be ready for the company's production of Giselle.

"I've got to be a hundred percent for auditions," I explained to Zhara as we moved closer to the front of the line. "When Silvi danced Giselle four years ago, it was unreal. It immediately became my favorite and I knew I had to play the principal the next time it came around. Zhara, I am Giselle."

"Please!" a girl said suddenly as she breezed past us and cut in line. "The only thing you could ever have in common with Giselle is that you might die of embarrassment when you end up choking out there. If you get the role at all after today's class."

We both watched with slightly open mouths as the younger dancer prepared herself and then took off, leaping through the air as easily as normal people walked.

Zhara snorted. "If girl wasn't such a be-yotch, I'd probably have been impressed by that," he said.

Even I had to admit that Scarlett's insult had been clever. She'd somehow managed to incorporate the plot of the ballet into her little dig. Giselle was actually inspired by two ghost stories, one of which was about a girl whose love for dance literally killed her. It was known to many in the industry as "Ballet's great tragedy." I found it hauntingly romantic and incredibly riveting. And I was convinced it would be the performance I'd come to be known for.

So yes, Scarlett's crack might have been funny...if anyone other than her had said it.

As it was though, there was no one I disliked more at RBC than Scarlett Oakes. I'd never met a more spoiled, self-righteous and entitled 15-year-old. If I had to guess, her over-inflated ego stemmed from her good looks. For all the ugliness she had on the inside, Scarlett was gorgeous on the outside. Skinny, tall, blond. It was the perfection trifecta and she knew it, using it to her advantage as often as she could get away with it.

That especially applied when it came to trying to position herself into the spot of prima ballerina. A spot that I'd earned over years of hard work. Not that the title was set in stone. A ballerina's place within a company could change at any minute for a multitude of reasons. For instance, if you were injured or someone else danced the part better—even having a bad week or putting on a few pounds—teachers could be swayed to switch things up. The point is, there was always someone gunning for the top spot. And that meant I had a lot of enemies.

Scarlett was simply the most vocal. And the most annoying.

I wanted to say something back. Maybe even drop an F-bomb or two. But the truth was...I wanted to beat her more. So, I kept my focus on class, trying to prove to Miss Diane that my lack of attention before had been a fluke. That I was totally and completely dedicated to this company.

I replaced my blinders and slid back into the zone.

Where I belonged.

Ballet was my life. It had been since the age of six, when I'd been dragged to my sister's class one Saturday afternoon. Before the little ones had even finished stretching, I'd fallen in love. Head over heels, I-know-what-I-was-meant-to-do-with-my-life, obsessed, all-consuming, crazy kind of love.

I adored everything about it. The outfits—skirts that flowed around me when I moved, leotards that clung to my body and showed off my strong yet slender muscles. Even the pink tights that itched and the wooden-tipped shoes that pinched my toes, leaving them bright red, raw and blistering, were all welcome side-effects of my newfound passion. Like little battle wounds that proved my dedication to the art.

And there was nothing better than the smell of a dance studio. The pungent scent of varnish that coated the floors and the hint of rosin floating lightly in the air—it was like an aphrodisiac to people like me.

But it was the act of dancing that made it impossible for me to give my life to anything else. There was just something about getting lost in the motions, using my body to tell a story. Every movement became a work of art, something of incredible beauty. When I danced, nothing else mattered. Nothing. I was powerless over the pull that it had on me.

Now, at 17, I'd finally worked my way up through the company, willingly accepting it as my whole world. As far as I was concerned, nothing else existed outside of these mirrored walls. It couldn't if I wanted to be great.

Ballet had made me its bitch from the very start, and there wasn't a day I didn't beg for more.

"See you all tomorrow," Miss Diane called out, clapping her hands to signal that class had ended. "And don't forget to bring your original 8-counts with you. We'll be performing them and then critiquing each other. So if you don't come prepared, you shouldn't come at all."

"She's just a ball of sugary sweetness, now isn't she?" Zhara said sarcastically under his breath as we walked over to one of the benches and sat down.

"She doesn't have to be nice," I answered honestly. "She just has to be good. Or at least, be able to make us good."

Zhara knew I was right, but shook his head anyway.

Pulling my shoes off carefully, I surveyed the damage. The skin had completely ripped away from at least four of my toes and my bunions were throbbing and red. With a sigh, I pulled up the bottoms of my tights until my ankles and feet were free. Then I retrieved my makeshift emergency kit out of my bag and got to work bandaging my wounds. It didn't matter that the job wasn't perfect, because the real cleanup would come after I got home and showered.

When I was done, I tied up my toe shoes and shoved some Kleenex into the bottoms to soak up the excess blood until the next time I'd wear them. Which would be the following day.

No rest for the weary.

"Somebody needs a ped-i-cure," Zhara said, tsking at me. "You aren't gonna pick up any honeys with beat-up, troll-looking feet like those."

I rolled my eyes, but smiled despite myself. Zhara was always like this. Showing his love and respect for our unusual relationship with playful digs and gentle coaxing meant to pull me out of my ballet bubble. He didn't actually expect me to change—he knew I was too set in my ways to do that—but in the off-chance that his outgoing nature might rub off on me, he kept at it anyway. It was a dance we'd played for years, and we wouldn't have been "us" without it.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not trying to pick up any guys then, isn't it?" I answered, carefully slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops. Wrapping myself up in a thin green sweater, and switching out my sheer skirt for a solid black one, I stood up and walked toward the door. Zhara followed right behind me.

"You're going to end up an old maid one day if you're not careful," he lectured as we walked down the street.

"Well, I am good at organizing," I said, thoughtfully.

"I think the term is OCD," he responded. "But seriously, I think sometimes you just don't know what you're missing, Emmy."

"There are more important things in life than boys, Zhara," I said, replaying an argument we had at least once a week.

"Bite your tongue!" Zhara said, aghast. "Cute boys make life worth trudging."

It was my turn to give him an incredulous look. "I think you need to reevaluate your priorities, my friend," I said. "Boys are just a distraction."

"A much-welcomed one at that," Zhara said as he focused his attention ahead of us. I looked to see what he was referring to and instantly wished that I hadn't.

Not too far in front of us walked a slender but muscular guy, his black bag slung across his back carelessly, hands hidden inside the pockets of his fitted grey Abercrombie sweats. Even from behind, I knew who it was.

Preston Vale.

The newest addition to RBC appeared only to be half-listening to a conversation Scarlett was having with the group of dancers around her. His thin white shirt clung to his body as if it had been made special for him, showing off back muscles that popped underneath. Just as my attention began to travel further south, he turned and caught us staring.

My gaze dipped to the ground quickly, hoping Preston would ignore what he'd just seen. Unfortunately, when I dared to look up again, I saw that he'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a playful grin spread across his face, as he waited for us to catch up to him.

"Zhara," Preston said easily, giving my partner a bro-like nod when we were within talking distance. Zhara smiled and nodded back before glancing over to catch my reaction. I tried to look anywhere but at the guy in front of me, thinking that if I just ignored him, maybe he'd go away.

No such luck.

"Hey, Em," Preston continued, walking backward to keep in step with us. "Looks like you were having a little trouble out there today."

"Breaking in new shoes," I said, forcing myself to sound as normal as possible when I spoke. Like I wasn't talking to the guy who'd been dubbed the hottest dancer in our studio.

He's just a guy, not a God. He's just a guy, not a God...

Preston nodded, his gaze fixed on me. I began to feel uncomfortable under his stare, like he could somehow read my mind. And I definitely did not want him knowing what I was really thinking.

"Well, change can be good," he said, after a few seconds.

"If you say so," I muttered.

"I do," he said, a hint of a sparkle in his eye. "You know, I have some experience...breaking in new shoes. Let me know if I can help in any way."

I nearly stumbled over my own feet as he shamelessly flirted with me. He wasn't even trying to hide it. My mouth went dry as I grasped for something to say to that.

"I'm fine, thanks," I said, quickly. "I've got Zhara here, if I need anything."

Zhara snorted beside me and I resisted the urge to elbow him.

Preston gave me an amused look, running his hand through his caramel-colored hair and letting it spike up messily in various directions. I wondered what it would be like to touch it myself, but then forced the thought away.

 "Okay, well, if you change your mind, you know where I am," Preston said and then turned and jogged away.

After a few seconds of silence, I let out the breath I'd been holding and then looked over at Zhara pointedly.

"See? Boys are a distraction," I said forcefully. "One I'm not willing to allow in my life right now."

Zhara let his mouth drop open in disbelief. "Are you channeling the Virgin Mary, because that's what you're gonna be if you keep pushing away hot guys like that," he said, watching Preston admiringly as he rejoined Scarlett's group. Then, under his breath he added, "I would lick that boy's abs like a popsicle."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not interested," I said aloud, trying to remind myself of this fact, too.

"Girl, you're crazy," Zhara said, shaking his head.

"Look, I admit...he's attractive," I said, recalling his bright green eyes and perfectly chiseled jawbone. "But he makes me flustered, and clumsy, and he knows it, and he still flirts anyway. He draws my focus away from ballet...."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Zhara interrupted.

"It is for me," I insisted. "Getting involved in a relationship at this point in my career would be idiotic. I'm not willing to derail my chances of being Prima—no matter how cute the boy is. I have greater aspirations than that."

Over the years, I'd seen too many girls become sidetracked by love. And once the relationships inevitably ended—and they did end—the dancer would go back to her first love, only to realize that her place within the company had been scooped up by someone else. Someone who'd made her craft the top priority in her life. And that's what I was going to do.

Because I wanted to be the best.

Without thinking, my eyes wandered back to Preston, who was now leaning over and saying something to Scarlett that I couldn't hear. Almost immediately, she tossed her bright blond hair over her shoulder and looked at us. When she saw me she scowled, before turning back to her entourage, all of whom were guys. Two gay, one straight, and then, of course, Preston. Scarlett's choice of companions wasn't surprising, considering she wasn't exactly a "girls girl." To her, we were the enemy. Another obstacle she needed to conquer if she wanted to end up on top.

Then again, this was the attitude of most of the females in the company. It was too hard to be friends with someone who desperately wanted you to fail. So, most of the girls paired off with the male dancers or chose to only have friends outside of the company.

I was perfectly happy sticking with Zhara.

With class over, seventeen of us, all RBC members, walked in tiny groups down the street in the direction of home. For most, this meant the collection of small apartments nearby, which we'd dubbed the "dancer's complex." In actuality, it was just a set of buildings like any other. Located feet away from the highway and less than ten blocks from the studio, the group of individual living quarters housed all of the dancers who chose to "live-in" while training.

Since the Richmond Ballet Company was the only real dance company for hundreds of miles, it drew in ballerinas from all over. And unless parents were willing to move for their kids' craft or didn't mind spending hours on end in the car each day, the only other option was to send their kids to live on their own.

Well, not completely on their own. There were adult supervisors who lived in the complex for those of us under the age of 18. And of course, plenty of the older dancers lived there, too, so it wasn't like we had an all-access pass to total freedom.

Still, we each had our own apartments, complete with kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms and living rooms. We lived our lives the way we wanted to for the most part; choosing what and when to eat, when to go to bed, how we wanted to socialize. Rent was expected to be paid on time and we dealt with issues on our own as they came up. The only difference between living there and anywhere else was that all the tenants spent the majority of their time dancing.

After joining RBC when I was only 13, my mom and I spent the next two years in a car; three hours a day, four days a week, driving back and forth to classes. Not only was commuting exhausting for both of us, but it was expensive, too, and eventually my parents agreed to let me live at the studio full-time. While my 'rents weren't exactly pushing me out the door, the truth was, they had three other kids at home who needed their time and attention (and resources), too.

So, even though they were sad to let their baby go sooner than expected, we all knew it was the right thing for our family. Of course, it helped that I'd always been the responsible one among my siblings, too engrossed in dance to act out in any significant way. That's why when the subject of emancipation came up, they knew it was more about practicality then the desire to cut the familial umbilical cord.

At the time, I'd been just a little bit older than Scarlett was now. By 16, I'd graduated from school early, gotten a job at a local gas station and was more or less paying my own way. My parents still helped out when I needed it, but it made me feel good to be able to lift that burden from them. And being on my own, focused all on myself, allowed me to dedicate everything I had to ballet.

"Well, if you decide you can suffer a little distraction, I'm heading to the Love Shack tonight if you want to join," Zhara said, snapping me back to the present. "It'll have the three D's: Drinks, dancing and di—"

"Please don't finish that sentence," I said, cutting him off, and closing my eyes since it was impossible for me to close my ears. Sometimes I thought that Zhara said things just to watch me squirm. Most of the time he succeeded.

Zhara may have only been 20 years old with a fake ID that said he was 21, but even I had to admit he looked older than that. He was always trying to get me to go out to dance clubs with him and my answer was always the same. The truth was, even if I'd been into that sort of thing, I would've been too scared to break the law to actually do it.

"What I was trying to say is that it's going to be a fun time," he said. "You know what that is, right? Fun? It's what we're all supposed to have every once in a while."

"Some of us insist on having it every night," I said, raising an eyebrow at him.

"And I'm a better man for it," he answered.

"Well, thanks for the offer, but I'm going to have to politely decline your invitation for a night of the three D's...as lovely as they sound," I said as we entered the tree-covered path that would lead us to the back entrance of the apartments. "Besides, we've got class tomorrow and I still need to practice."

"We've got class every day, Emmy."

"That's sort of why we're here, right?" I countered.

"I don't know about you," he said. "But I'm here to dance with beautiful people and keep up this fine physique."

We slowed down as we got to the door to my place, and Zhara lifted up his shirt to flash his rock-hard abs. The guy wasn't wrong. He was what people might describe as "a tall drink of water." With skin the color of dark chocolate and not an ounce of fat on him, he was the epitome of beauty. And it wasn't just his body that turned heads. With almond-shaped eyes and thick lips that spread into a perfect smile, he was the whole package.

I laughed at Zhara as he made ridiculous poses in the courtyard.

"Well, I'm here to be the best," I said. "To be prima. Dance Giselle. I don't have time to do anything else."

This was what my life had been like for as long as I could remember. People might describe it as sheltered. I hated that word. It reeked of superiority. Like my life was somehow inferior in comparison to others. But my life was exactly how I wanted it to be. All the hard work and focus was worth it. So what if I had to give up having a social life? I didn't want to be social half the time anyway.

"Work it, girl," Zhara said, pursing his lips and then snapping his fingers.

I laughed again and took a step toward my front door. I left it unlocked most of the time, and when I turned the knob, it swung open easily.

"You know I always do," I responded.

"Enjoy your night of going to bed early," he said.

"Enjoy your night of di—debauchery," I said playfully before stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

I leaned against it a moment, letting my head tilt back until it touched the wood as I enjoyed the silence.

We'd danced for four and a half hours that day and my feet were throbbing. I didn't know how Zhara had the energy to go out at night after a full day of classes. All I wanted to do was take a bath and crawl into bed.

With a sigh, I pulled myself away from the door and walked through my living room and into the kitchen, dropping my dance bag onto the table-top.

I was a long way away from sleep, though. I still had to practice my choreography for class in the morning, pay a few bills online and do laundry. Tonight was my first night off of work in over a week, which meant my dirty clothes had been piling up. Nope, sleep would come much later.

Ugh. Sometimes being an "adult" sucked.

I grabbed a yogurt and a bottle of water from the fridge, and then trudged warily back to the bathroom. All I needed now was a bath. Once I was cleaned up, I'd feel better and could get on with my night.

The sound of running water filled the tiny room as I peeled off my sweaty clothes and left them in a pile on the floor near my feet. I reached up and pulled the rubberband out of my hair, letting my deep auburn locks fall freely across my shoulders and back.

It was one of my best features, people said. Full and shiny, my hair extended down to the space right above my butt. Not that many people saw it much, since it was pulled back most of the time. But on the rare occasion that I did let my hair down, it often got compliments.

I leaned forward and studied my face in the mirror, noticing to my dismay that a few more freckles had popped up on my already spotted nose and cheeks. You've gotta be kidding me. I drew my fingers over the little brown dots. I'd only been in the sun for 15 minutes without sunscreen the day before and there were already more.

Some people thought freckles were cute, but I hated mine. I hated that they could just pop up anytime, without any notice at all. When I was younger, my brother used to tease me and say that it looked like I had dirt on my face. Ever since then, I'd been self-conscious about them.

Luckily my skin had a nice bronze to it, so the freckles sort of blended in if you were far enough away from me.

Of course, I could've avoided it all, if I'd just wear makeup to cover it up. But I hated the stuff more than I hated my freckles. The only time I gave in was when I was on stage. And even then, I was required to do it.

I put one of my feet up onto the sink and began to remove my makeshift bandages. On the other side of the white gauze was a fresh coating of blood, but a quick look at my toes showed that they were already starting to dry up.

Cleaning these is going to be a bitch. I started to uncover the other foot and winced as a piece of cotton stuck to mangled flesh.

Just as I was about to lower myself into the steaming water, there was a knock at my front door.

"Noooooooo," I moaned, in frustration.

I wondered if whoever-it-was would simply go away if I didn't respond. Another knock at the door, this time more persistent, proved that wasn't going to happen.

Grumbling, I reached for my robe hanging on the back of the door and wrapped it around my body before stomping down the hallway to the entryway.

"This better be an emergency—" I started as I jerked open the door. The sentence trailed off as I took note of the two men standing on my doorstep.

"I'm afraid it is, Miss," one of them said in a gruff voice, before taking a step toward me and holding something up in front of my face.

I flinched as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. A patch of leather and metal mashed together to form something I knew instinctively was a badge, though I'd never seen one in person before. On it were three little letters.

FBI.

Trigger warning: This part contains explicit descriptions of murder, rape and/or torture, which may be disturbing or triggering for some readers.

August 11th

I found another one today.

She was working at a gas station I drove into, and as soon as I saw her, I was intrigued. She was just sitting there, behind the plexiglass window, reading something or writing something maybe. Like she'd been waiting for me to arrive.

For a while, I just sat in my car and watched her. She was the perfect combination of youth and beauty—everything I like in a girl.

In a potential...

Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, exposing herself to me in all her glory. I wondered if she'd done it on purpose, just to prove she wasn't afraid of me.

Of course, she should've been.

When she finally looked up, she seemed surprised to see me there, and motioned to me, asking with charades if I wanted her to come out and pump my gas.

I did. But as much as I wanted to see her holding that hose, gripping it tightly as it spewed liquid into the tank, I realized she wasn't ready yet.

I wasn't ready yet.

Sometimes I don't like to strike right away. I want to enjoy the courtship. Usually, things happened so fast that I never got a chance to savor the moments. And then they were gone, left only as a memory that I'd have to play over and over again for a subpar payoff.

With this one, I wanted to take my time.

So, I shook my head with a smile, and got out of the car to fill my own tank. Halfway through, I looked back in the direction of the dark-haired beauty in the booth, and saw that she'd already gone back to whatever she'd been doing before.

I imagined she was playing hard to get. And it turned me on.

When I was finished, I paid at the pump and then got back into my car and drove to school.

For the rest of the day I thought of her.

I imagined running my hands through her hair after pulling it out of whatever kept it perfectly in place. Bobby pins, maybe. I'd hold her lower lip between my teeth and bite down until I tasted blood, but only until she moaned with pleasure. Her body wriggling beneath mine, scared but excited at the same time, begging me to violate her again and again...

Later, when I was doing this chick I met at a bar, I imagined it was the gas station girl I was in bed with. As I slowly choked her into unconsciousness, I thought of all the dirty things I'd do when I got my hands on the real thing.

The girl was wasted, so she wouldn't remember any details in the morning. She might be sore, but they usually were after a night with me. The girl's just lucky I'm letting her wake up at all.

I think I'll go by the gas station again...

One of the men on the porch was dressed in a faded black suit, worn but still professional-looking. The younger of the two wore a pair of blue jeans, a white button-down and a blazer. Both had on sunglasses and serious expressions. They were still waiting for my response, and finally I moved to the side and gestured for them to come inside.

I looked out the door at the space the men had just vacated and saw Scarlett sitting across the courtyard on a bench. She was by herself now, magazine in hand, head tilted up toward the sun.

I bet she wouldn't even get any freckles from it, either.

The California blond slowly tilted down the shades that had been covering her eyes, making it clear that she'd seen what had just happened. The look she gave me was irritating. A cross between shock and judgment.

The whole company will have heard about this before the next class. Emmy had two guys over to her apartment. Can you believe it? The rumors themselves would be sordid and not at all accurate in their details.

Because whatever Scarlett came up with in that active imagination of hers, it wouldn't compare to reality.

Which was...

Closing the door, I joined the suits in my small living room. The place was darker now without the sunlight seeping in from the door. I turned on a lamp as I passed it and then walked over to the second-hand armchair across from the couch. The men still hadn't said anything since showing me their badges, and now remained standing until I was seated.

Gentlemen.

We sat there in silence, the guys not-so-subtly looking around my apartment like they were judging my decorating skills, and me feeling embarrassed by the fact that I hadn't given the room a good cleaning in days. I was about to apologize for the mess—which truthfully wasn't all that messy to begin with since I was kind of a neat-freak—when they both turned their attention back to me.

Or more accurately, what I was wearing.

Suddenly I remembered that I was practically naked, and I pulled the robe tighter across my flat chest before leaning my legs to one side to make sure I didn't flash them.

"I was about to take a bath," I mumbled, offering them an excuse, even though they hadn't asked. "Um, what is this about officers?"

Wasn't that what you were supposed to say when the police showed up on your doorstep unexpectedly?

As if on cue, the two took off their sunglasses, folding them up expertly and placing them in the pockets of their jackets. Had they rehearsed that? Spent hours practicing to make sure they hit every motion like a pair of synchronized swimmers? It was sort of bizarre, and I glanced around the room almost expecting a judge's panel to appear, holding up a row of perfect 10s for the performance.

But we were alone.

The older of the two cleared his throat and then leaned toward me until his eyes were level with mine. "I'm Special Agent Landon and this is Special Agent Walker," he said, his voice gruff. It matched his weather-blown skin and scruffy face. Everything about him was rough. Right down to his hands, which he kept firmly on his knees. "And we're with the FBI. Are your parents around? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"My parents live a few hours away," I responded. Though their faces remained mostly expressionless, I swore I could see a flicker of surprise in the younger one's eyes. "Um, I'm emancipated. You can ask me whatever you want...but are you sure you have the right person?"

"You're exactly the person we need to talk to, Emmy," the guy who'd been introduced as Special Agent Walker chimed in.

Again, I couldn't fight the feeling that all of this had been meticulously rehearsed.

I searched Special Agent Walker's face to try and get a read for what they could possibly be here about. Upon second glance, I realized he was young. Probably only a few years older than Zhara. His dirty blond hair was on the longer side, but was slicked back and swept off to the side so it gave the illusion of professionalism. It didn't look greasy, like those guido guys or anything though. He looked put-together. Sophisticated.

He was staring at me now, his wide eyes fixed on mine curiously. They were light blue, and almost looked like they were about to pop out of his head. I could see how people would find him oddly attractive, like those models who had a quirk to their looks, making them stand out. He wasn't jarringly cute like Preston, I noted, but he wasn't exactly unpleasant to look at either.

I turned back to the other one and took a deep breath.

"Oooo-kay," I said slowly. "Um, what do you need to know?"

Almost as if he'd been expecting this, Agent Landon produced a brown, unmarked folder, and then took his time untying the twine that held it closed. When it was finally free, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over to me.

"Some of this might be a bit...alarming or difficult to talk about," Agent Walker said. I didn't look at the paper I had gripped in my hand. I had a feeling that once I did, I wouldn't be able to unsee its contents. "Are you sure you don't want someone here with you? It's alright if you do."

What could they possibly have to tell me that I'd need to bother Zhara or one of the teachers about? The sooner the agents said what they needed to say, the sooner I could get on with my bath.

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I insisted.

"Do you know that man?" Agent Landon cut in, barely waiting for me to finish my sentence.

Slightly annoyed by the rudeness in his voice, I looked down at the paper. It was glossy and held a photo of a man mid-stride. He had dark hair, wore black-rimmed glasses and was standing outside a building I didn't recognize. The jeans and nice jacket he had on were similar to the outfit that Agent Walker was wearing, only it didn't quite work for the guy in the picture. His jeans were just a little tighter than they should've been and the whole look seemed far too young for the middle-aged man.

Even though the photo wasn't a close-up, I still knew who it was.

"That's Kyle," I said, curious why they were asking about him.

"And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. Grafton?" Agent Landon asked evenly.

I handed him back the photo and settled into my chair uneasily.

"I wouldn't," I said flatly. The two gave me a confused look, so I continued. "We don't have a relationship. He comes to the gas station where I work every couple of weeks to fill up. He's tried to hang out a few times, but nothing's ever happened."

"Nothing's ever happened?" Agent Landon asked, raising his eyebrow at me.

"No," I said, surprised and sort of grossed out by what he was implying. "He's not exactly my type."

"And that is..." Agent Walker coaxed.

"Well it certainly isn't old guys," I responded, sarcastically "He's like, 40, and has a kid. It would be like hanging out with my dad. Like I said, not my type."

Agent Landon waited a few beats as he processed this information and then continued. "So you never spent time with Kyle Grafton outside of when he came by the gas station?"

I fidgeted.

"Why are you asking all these questions about Kyle?" I asked instead.

"Please just answer our questions, Miss Bryant," Agent Landon said with the sigh of someone who wasn't interested in answering a teenager's inquiries. Then, as if he realized he'd shown his hand, he took another approach. "It would really help us out."

Looking back in the direction of the bathroom, I found myself wishing I hadn't opened the door in the first place. Then I'd be soaking in the warmth of a tub full of Epson Salt, relaxing and thinking through the rest of my night's plans...

Agent Landon cleared his throat again, bringing me out of my daydream. I sighed wistfully.

"He came over here a few times," I said.

"You invited him over?" Agent Walker asked.

"No," I answered. "He sort of just...showed up."

"And what happened?" Agent Landon asked.

I thought back to that first time Kyle had been to my place. The surprise I'd felt to find him at my door.

"Nothing really," I said, shrugging. "I invited him in. We talked for a few minutes. Then I told him I had stuff to do and he left."

"That's it?" Agent Walker asked, sounding genuinely astonished.

"Yep. Pretty much."

"What did you two talk about?" Agent Landon asked.

I reached down to itch at one of the blisters on my foot. It was throbbing and I contemplated taking some Advil since it seemed like we would be there for a while.

But I stayed put.

"We mostly talked about his daughter. She's eight and he was always asking about things he could buy her. Stuff a girl her age might like. She lives with his ex-wife, so he doesn't get to spend a ton of time with her..."

I let the sentence trail off, because there wasn't really anything else to say. The truth was, I didn't really know Kyle Grafton well at all. He was someone I'd talked to a few times, but he didn't have a place in my life. If the agents weren't here asking me all these questions about him, chances were, I wouldn't have thought of him again unless I ran into him.

I had other things going on.

"You a dancer?" Agent Walker asked then, motioning over to the corner of the room where I'd installed floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a wooden barre that extended about four feet across. It was where I practiced when I wasn't in the studio.

"A ballerina," I said.

The agents shared a knowing look that I couldn't decipher, before turning back to me.

"What did Kyle do?" I asked finally, sick of playing this round-about game where I talked and didn't get any answers. "And what does it have to do with me?"

This time, Agent Landon didn't shoot me down right away, but only looked at me with pity in his eyes. It made me scared, though I wasn't sure why.

"Miss Bryant, we arrested Kyle Grafton a few days ago on suspicion of murder," he said, watching my reaction.

I almost laughed, literally out loud. Because this had to be a joke. People I knew didn't kill people. That sort of stuff happened in movies and on TV, not in real life.

Not in my life.

"You're joking, right?" I asked. When they didn't answer, the smile I wore began to fade. "It must've been an accident then."

"It wasn't an accident," Agent Walker said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe I wasn't getting what they were saying.

"We have reason to believe that Kyle Grafton murdered at least seventeen girls over the last two years," Agent Landon said, no longer sugar-coating things.

As he said it, it was like the wind had been knocked out of me. My body went cold and then numb, as I attempted to process what was happening here in my living room. Am I hallucinating? Hearing things? Had I passed out and this was some sort of nightmare I was stuck in?

None of it made any sense.

"Why are you telling me this?" I whispered, almost surprised when the words came out at all. "What do I have to do with any of this?"

This time it was Agent Walker who delivered the final blow.

"Because he wrote about you in his diary."

August 24th

I didn't actually need the gas.

But she didn't know that.

She also didn't know that there were closer, more convenient places for me to go to get it. As it was, the Standard Station #722 was 25 minutes out of my way...in the opposite direction of both work and home.

I didn't care though, if it meant I got to see her.

I'd already driven by the station three times since our first meeting, hoping to catch her in the booth again. All beautiful and distracted. So far, the trips hadn't paid off, but today...today she was there.

This time she saw me as I drove up, walking out of the booth as if to greet me. By the time I'd put the car in park, she was there, standing next to me, peering down into the driver's seat. She'd smiled. Smoothed her hair back, even though none of it was loose. She was happy to see me. I could tell.

"Fill her up?" she'd asked me, her voice even sweeter than I'd imagined. It was high-pitched and eager...like a little girl. Her body, too, was like a teenager's before she'd hit puberty. Barely-there breasts, so small that she didn't need a bra. Her nipples poked through two layers of shirts, which were slouchy on her, but did nothing to hide how thin she was underneath them.

Her legs seemed to go all the way up to her neck, so long they went on forever. I thought about how they'd feel around my waist. I almost lost it then, but reined it in, knowing I could replay it all later.

"Sure. That'd be great," I'd said, releasing the latch on the gas cap for her.

"Is this one of those hybrid cars..." she'd asked as she took my credit card and glanced at the front before swiping it at the pump. Then she added, "...Kyle?"

The way she said my name made me feel special.

She'd probably been trained to personalize her interactions with costumers to maximize tips. It was actually a pretty smart move, but only a fool would fall for it. And I wasn't a fool.

"It's a Prius," I'd said, patting the black exterior of my car like it was an old friend.  "Gets great gas mileage and helps the environment."

I didn't give a rat's ass about helping the environment.

The real reason I'd chosen the car was because everyone in California had one. It was like Starbucks...there was one on every corner. Which meant it'd be damn-near impossible to track me down based on its description alone. It was the perfect car if you wanted to blend in.

"That means we see you less at the station, though," the girl had responded, poutily.

My pulse started to race.

"Well, Emmy..." Her name was printed on the rectangular nametag conveniently placed above her left breast, this way I could sneak a peek without being considered a pervert. "I do a lot of driving, so we'll probably see each other more often than you think."

She crinkled up her nose, trying to figure out if I was hitting on her or not. After assessing me—taking in my clean-cut outfit, my well-crafted hairstyle and the dimples I was flashing—she smiled.

This was usually when the girl tried to get me to do something. I was a good-looking guy, so I understood it...I worked out, dressed nicely, had great genes, so I was ageing well. I was a catch. And after a few minutes of conversation, most of them wanted something from me: a meal, a drive in my car, sex, a relationship...

So, I was ready for what I thought would come next.

Instead, she'd pulled the hose out of my tank and placed it back in its holding space. Then she handed me my receipt.

"Well, that's good, because I can't afford to lose my job," she'd said with a wink. Then she started to walk away.

I stopped her by calling out her name. When she turned around, it was like looking at a work of art. The sun shone behind her, making her dark hair glow an intriguing shade of red. She stood there with her legs crossed and her arms delicately down by her side. There was something graceful about the way she moved, and I wanted her to come back to me.

Now.

I held out a twenty, watching as her eyes went wide with surprise, and then she was there next to my car again, accepting the bill shyly.

"Thanks," she'd said. It was clear she hadn't expected the tip and I wondered if she wasn't different than the others. Special even.

Then she pranced away, looking back to give me a little wave before disappearing once again into the booth.

Emmy.

I'd never had an Emmy before.