We return to the courtyard where the crowd has gathered to
watch the unveiling. The doors of the Grand are open, and people are packed all the way inside, looking out. They hold champagne flutes and martini glasses. The men are impeccable in their tuxes and slicked back hair—the same men who once frequented the Grand as a strip club. The women on their arms are dressed in Armani and Valentino, every shade of orange and pink and gold. They love to whisper about the salacious past of the Grand even while they drop a thousand dollars on a ticket.
In the center of it all is the fountain. It’s never worked the entire time I’ve been here. The statue at the top has been broken since I got here, and it’s gotten smashed even worse since then. The trough collects dry leaves and dirt.
Now it’s covered by yards and yards of black silk.
“Thank you all for coming,” I tell everyone. “The Grand has been my dream, my home. It’s been my deepest desire, and I’m thrilled tonight to share it with you all.”
The eyes of the crowd shine with lust. The men want my body. Some of the women want it too. They’re covetous and cruel and absolutely beautiful.
“Without further delay, please let me present to you all an incredible artist and lovely young woman.”
Clara stands up, looking nervous and brave. She gives a speech about this commission—her first major piece to be in public. Her sister, Honor, is in the audience. Her dark eyes shine with pride as she watches her younger sister speak. Honor is wearing a black sheath and simple gold string necklace. She looks sophisticated and demure. No one would guess from looking at her that she had the most flawless pole technique I’ve ever seen.
Lola is beside her, with Blue’s arms wrapped around her waist. He doesn’t leave her side when he can help it, and especially not here, when Sarah Elizabeth’s brother, Alex, has never been caught. He hasn’t struck again either, so we’re hoping he gave up his horrible crusade and went somewhere far away—away from Harmony Hills and away from us.
When Clara is finished speaking, she nods to the men on either side of the fountain. They’re bouncers. High class bouncers, and they fill out their tuxes so nicely. They reach down and pull the black silk away, unveiling the new statue atop the fountain.
An angel stands on top of the fountain. Her wings are spread wide, strong and capable of carrying her anywhere. One wing is slightly crooked, like a bird who’s injured her wing. But she still stands tall, chin held high. Her hair falls in loose waves, the kind of texture you get after being out at sea, salt and water spray leaving its mark. And her eyes—the angels eyes are what you remember most. They’re strong and fierce, so determined. This isn’t an angel to pray or bless you. This is a warrior, one who knows the evils of the world and fight them every day.
The crowd gasps, torn between genuine appreciation and their jaded addiction to criticism. They applaud Clara and demand, simply demand, that she create custom pieces for them all. She’ll be very busy, assuming she wants to create ego centerpieces for cunning rich people.
Ivan squeezes my hand. “It’s lovely.”
I give him a wink. “Wait until you see the show.”
Those lovely gray eyes widen. I don’t dance very often, not onstage, focusing instead on the choreography, the staging, and the front of the house. Not to mention the number crunching on the backend. It keeps me busy, but I wanted to be part of this night, of this show. I wanted this to be a true transition from what the Grand had been to what it has become. That means never forgetting where it came from, just like I can never forget. There are scars on the Grand, in the walls themselves. Just like there are scars on Ivan’s body. They tell a story about where it’s been—and about where it’s going.
* * *
It’s a rush out onstage again, the lights, the feeling of flying. I dance with the other girls in formation through our opening act and then wait backstage for a few of the sets.
Then it’s my turn.
My dance is a blend of stripper moves and burlesque, both crude and sultry, both fierce and whimsical. It’s an ode to the past, this song. And hope for the future. When I’m done, I’m breathless, weightless.
I’m almost euphoric as I head down the familiar hallway and into the dressing room. It had to be expanded to accommodate the full company of dancers. They’re bustling about, getting ready for the show. Some of them give me a hug and kiss, congratulating me on my performance, but I’m careful not to smudge their makeup.
Then I see Honor at my vanity, with Lola at her side. Blue is there, looking severe.
My heart drops. All I can think about is Alex. Did he do something else? Leave more blood? Hurt someone?
“What’s wrong?” I manage to ask over the knot in my throat.
“It’s Clara,” Honor says. “She was supposed to sit with us, but when we all took our seats, she wasn’t there. She isn’t anywhere.”
Oh God. There’s a steel band around my chest, and I can’t breathe. If anything happened to Clara, I don’t know what I would do. She’s too sweet for this place. Too innocent. Why did I ever ask her to make a sculpture for us?
“She probably just got a ride with some friends,” Lola says, but her big brown eyes are filled with worry. We all know that Clara is careful, thoughtful. She would have at least told her sister she was leaving.
Kip appears, looking out of breath. “We searched the perimeter of the Grand, but we’re going to go wider.”
In other words, he hasn’t found her.
I squeeze Honor’s hand. “I’m sure she’ll turn up just fine, and then you’ll be able to ground her for life.”
Honor gives me a wan smile. “She’s eighteen now. I can’t ground her at all.”