A Dangerous Dance

Chapter 4

Ethan

At the hotel, I'm not surprised to find Brody sitting at the bar by himself. With a drink in hand, he is watching something on the television. When I walk up to him, he looks up.

"Back so soon?"

I take a seat beside him, trying to act casual. Trying to hide how shook I still am by how the night turned out.

"I thought you'd be asleep by now," I say.

"I figured you might need to talk after doing whatever is it you were doing," he replies, glancing at the TV again.

Brody has a keen sense of observation. I have to be careful with him. Some things I prefer to keep inside. Guarded. I'm not good at opening up.

"Can I get you anything?" asks the bartender, a man named Jacob I went to high school with. His eyes tell me he recognizes me too, but he doesn't mention it.

"Scotch. On the rocks, please."

He turns to the liquor bottles stew haphazardly on the back wall.

"So," begins Brody, "Who was it? Was it a she?"

The bartender sets a glass in front of me and pours from a bottle of Glenfiddich.

"It was the she."

"Oh, I see," he says into his glass, "The proverbial one that got away, is it?"

"No." There was a time I very much had her. A time I wish I could go back to. "The one I left behind."

I keep replaying the night over and over in my head. Evangeline looks exactly the same, but she isn't. Something changed in six years. It would have been ridiculous to expect her to have stayed the same, but the difference is so drastic and I cannot put my finger on it.

There's just something... off about her.

He slaps a compassionate hand on my back. "We all had to leave things behind for this gig."

As if that explains it. I didn't just leave her behind because I had to. I left because I thought it was the best for us. I thought there wouldn't be room for her in my life anymore.

I was wrong.

Now there is a void so large, only she can fill it.

"Yeah," I say, gulping down my drink. I rise from the stool. "I'm turning in. Don't stay too long, we start bright and early tomorrow."

No matter what, I am here because I have a job to do. I can't let what happened detract me from my investigation.

***

"Have any luck with the parents?" I ask Brody as he joins me in the hotel parking lot.

He crosses his arms and leans on the car, looking into the distance. "Not really. They were still too rattled about it to be of any help."

"Things like this don't happen here." These people don't know how to deal with the situation, much less how to help.

"Did you find the best friend?"

"Apparently she hasn't been to work in over a week," I reply absently, a million thoughts running through my head.

I watch the sun begin to set, colouring the horizon a warm shade of bronze. Despite it all, I only feel cold inside.

"Wanna try the girlfriend next?" asks Brody.

No. "Yes. Let's get this over with."

The ride to Valerie Rosenberg's home is a short one down the main street to the one and only apartment complex of Newton. Part low-income housing, part cheap studios, the place is home to anything from students to families living on the edge of poverty.

When the red brick buildings come into view, I locate a parking spot on the side of the street and suppress the desire to high-tail it out of there.

"You ok, mate?"

I nod and slam the car door shut behind me.

Looking around, nothing has changed, yet nothing is the same. The familiar chipped green doors and busted staircases adorn the buildings, along with the barred windows and yellowing grass. This all spoke home to me once, but now all I see is rundown buildings and weed-infested flowerbeds.

Valerie Rosenberg lives in apartment 109. It takes a good two minutes after Brody knocks on her door before she appears in front of us, her short brown hair brushed back and a pair of round glasses perched on her nose.

"Ms. Rosenberg," starts Brody, extending his hand, "I'm Special Agent Brody Taylor and this is my partner—"

"Ethan Sanders. I know," she interrupts. "Welcome back," she says with a hint of contempt.

I don't acknowledge it.

"We're here to speak to you about Catalyn, if that's ok with you," I say.

She pushes the door open wider and motions for us to come inside. There are clothes and boxes stew around without an apparent logic to them, dirty dishes in the sink and talcum remains from when they looked for fingerprints weeks ago.

We take a seat at the dining table in front of her.

"I'm sure it hasn't been easy," starts Brody, "How have you been?"

I fold my hands on the table, watching Valerie intently as she answers him. This is how we do things. He appears the approachable and empathetic investigator while I assess their reactions. It gets them to open up, loosen their guards for when the real questions come.

"What kind of relationship did you and Catalyn have?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" she says.

"Was it an open relationship? As far as you know, did she see other people, including men?" I ask, preferring to go straight to the point.

"We were in a serious, committed relationship," she narrows her eyes at me, "She didn't see other people. Especially not men."

"Did she have enemies?" asks Brody.

Valerie's eyes soften as she turns to him. "Some of the girls at the Dance Studio could be a little nasty."

Of course, I knew that firsthand. Evie had had a few unpleasant encounters over the years with some of the girls. They got competitive.

"Do you have any names?"

"No. She rarely shared those things with me."

Switching strategies, I ask, "What can you tell us about that night?"

She shifts a little in her seat before focusing on me again.

"I was out with some friends. We'd..." she scratches the back of her neck and after a beat, she says, "had a fight that day."

"What was it about?"

"Money," she says without hesitation. "I never got to," her voice quivers and she looks down, "I never got to make things right with her before she..."

Brody leans forward a little, "Don't dwell on these things, Valerie, it wasn't your fault."

"If only I'd been there!" she sobs, "We'd just had an alarm system installed. She forgot to arm it! Damn it!"

The tears begin to roll down her cheeks and I clench my jaw.

"It's ok," Brody says, "You're going to be ok. Do you have someone to talk to? Family? Anyone?"

I stand up, Brody following suit. This is our cue.

"I'll call my sister," she sniffs. "Just—Just find that son of a bitch."