“I get the feeling he hasn’t quite let her go.”
My stomach twists into knots. This asshole doesn’t get what he wants, so he makes her life miserable instead? Does this mean he’ll try again?
Not on my watch. I coax in a cooling breath.
“Fine, I’ll come in.” Though my brother is a cop, I haven’t set foot in the station since I was a reckless punk—god, twenty years ago? I’m not ashamed of those days, but memories are not my friends.
“Can you make it in this afternoon?” he replies. “Zach will handle it.”
Zach Hayes is Ev’s right hand man at the Finn River Sheriff’s Department and a good cop. I’d rather deal with Everett but because he’s a witness to what went down last night, it makes sense why Zach is running point.
“Any chance you can find out if her ex is hanging around?” I ask.
“Hmm,” he replies, meaning I’m pushing my luck.
“Last night might be a coincidence, or…” It wouldn’t be the first time Finn River had a stalker.
“He flies for Leap Airlines and a charter service,” Ev finally says. “Don’t worry, he’s on our radar.”
I get the feeling he’s told me as much as he can. “Good.”
We end the call and I turn left at the light and accelerate up the hill toward the high school sports complex. School’s been out for a week, so there are only a few cars parked in the lot. I head for the back door of the gym. The rhythmic thumps and thuds from the gymnasts tumbling or spinning on the bars mingles with the coach’s commands and praise. It smells of chalk dust and stale popcorn.
I’m early, but I try to catch the end of Greta’s practice when I can. It gives me insight I don’t always get from my kid, who tells me less and less.
I climb up the bleachers and sit in the middle, giving me a good view. Greta is working on her floor routine with one of the coaches. Greta nods while tugging down the hem of her boy shorts. White chalk marks dot her thighs, and flyaways have come loose from her ponytail, but she struts to the edge of the floor, takes a breath all the way into her lungs, and charges, a look of fierce determination on her face, the pounding of her feet on the stiff floor echoing through the gym.
“Yeah, Greta!” one of her teammates calls out just as she dives into a round-off followed by a back handspring, the staccato thud of her hands and feet touching down in such contrast to the fluid way her body flips and twists.
“Push!” her coach barks as Greta launches into a full twist, her body like a corkscrew.
She sticks the landing, but takes one big step back. I have torestrain myself from jumping up and cheering. Greta only started gymnastics seriously a few years ago, but she’s gone after it hard, and it shows.
“Good work!” the coach says, nodding. “Really kick that second leg back in your roundoff for more power.”
Greta’s reply is swallowed by the steady noise, then she steps off the floor and trots to the tumbling area, sneaking a quick glance at the bleachers. She’s got her game face on, so I don’t get a smile, but for just a fraction of a second, the tension in her face melts away.
Though she tells me I don’t need to be here, how could I pass it up?
I scan the other stations, all of them buzzing with activity. One of the coaches is spotting a girl on the bars while another coach supervises the beams. A girl is practicing her back handspring layout combo and another is working on spins. It’s amazing to me that these athletes can stay focused while surrounded by so much noise and activity.
Practice is almost over when three boys dressed in track pants and tight t-shirts stride into the gym. From their swagger, I’d say they’re athletes too, though they’re too short for basketball. Maybe wrestling? They settle in the middle of the bleachers, their attention fixed on the tumbling mats, where Greta and two other teammates are practicing their passes, their limbs a blur as they flip and twist.
“Who’s that?” one of the guys says after Greta completes a flawless tumbling combo like the beast she is.
They watch her and a teammate do tandem roundoff back handsprings into a back flip, then cackle with laughter.
“She’s the one who told Sam to stuff it,” one of the other guys says with a snicker.
My chest pinches. I don’t like the way they’re talking about my kid. And what’s this all about?
The coach calls the team to gather on the mat, and the three guys stand and shuffle toward them. After a brief introduction, the middle guy says a few words I can’t hear while the other two pass out flyers to the team. When the huddle breaks up, Greta walks to her bag and slips on a pair of sweatpants and pulls a loose t-shirt over her top. One of the guys trots over to talk to her.
I’m already moving, and get to Greta just as she slings her bag on her shoulder and turns away from the guy, a stoic expression on her face.
I glare at the kid, who’s watching her go with a mix of longing and frustration on his face. When he notices me, he spins away.
I fall in next to Greta. “What was that all about?”
