Kill Switch (Devil's Night 3)

Scenarios

and fears raced through my mind over time.

He’d been arrested.

He’d moved.

He’d died.

All of those were agonizing possibilities, but not nearly as painful as facing the most likely one.

He’d lost interest.

He’d had his fun, moved on, and was happy and laughing with someone else, while I sat around and missed him.

I thought that was why it was a good idea to get a job. If you can’t keep your head on straight, then at least keep busy.

I was still constantly aware of him, though. Living my life as if he were watching me. Curling my hair, asking Ari for makeup advice—which she loved and was actually really nice about helping with—and dancing. Dancing late at night after everyone had gone to bed in hopes that he was there and would know it was safe to come out.

Two strange but fascinating visits two years ago, and I still walked around like he was watching me.

Because, I swore, sometimes I thought he was. After that Devil’s Night and he disappeared, I could be at a party or a basketball game or sitting on the terrace under the awning in a summer rain and listening to my audiobook, and then…I’d feel it. The heat of his eyes.

I guessed he could’ve still been watching, but why cut off contact?

Probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but it made it hard to forget him. He’d definitely succeeded at making an impression, hadn’t he?

And in all the time since I’d last spoken to him, I hadn’t told anyone about him. I’d joined the dance club at school, made some new friends, and even though I felt a lot more comfortable there now, it was the one place that was drama free for me. I could only imagine how the story of my mysterious interlude with a dark stranger would suddenly turn into a story of how I was forced to dance for a psycho serial killer who wanted to dress me up in pigtails and keep my feet as souvenirs. No, thank you. I wouldn’t let anyone ruin it.

Not to mention, telling others risked my parents finding out, and that would be bad.

Carrying the tray up the stairwell, I walked into the manager’s office and set it down on her desk.

“Thank you, Winter,” she said. “How are you? You seem to be doing well down there.”

Yeah. “A nine-year-old could do that job.”

“Winter…” she scolded.

I wasn’t really joking, though. It was the truth. A typical teenage job. While I didn’t need the money, it was nice to earn my own cash and have something low-stress, so it didn’t distract from school, but it was also a job she thought I could do. She’d picked it for me.

And I wanted to do more.

I stood there, hovering, and she must’ve seen the look on my face, because she stopped counting the money.

“You nearly broke an arm,” she reminded me, sighing.

I fell practicing over a year ago. Dancers fell and broke bones all the time.

“You can’t dance with the corps,” she went on. “You learn slower than we can work with. The wrong fall could kill you. I mean…do you know what you’re asking of us, honey?”

My jaw locked, because she was tired of this conversation, and I had no new arguments. I danced on that stage downstairs many times when I was little. I danced at home with no accidents. Yes, it took me longer to learn my stage, and I would make everyone’s job just a little bit harder and that sucked, but it wasn’t impossible. I’d gone over it in my head a thousand times, mapping the choreography—mine and the other dancers’. I just wanted a shot.

She rose from her chair, the wheels squeaking underneath, and she pinched my chin lightly between her fingers.

“Challenges find us so we can become who we’re meant to be,” she told me. “God has taken you on an exciting new path. Trust his judgment and see where it leads.”

What the hell?