Perfect Flaws

37. A Ballerina's Melody

[WARNING: this chapter contains violence, sexual harassment, and disturbing content]

Elijah

Shock. Adrenaline. Terror.

They're all the same.

Experiencing the feelings are entirely similar.

I watch her, her voice holds each sensation in each word she speaks.

"He was weird," she says.

"That year, god- he was so weird when he got the position."

Dal and I don't speak, we watch her like a music box, the ballerina making her rounds repeatedly.

We watch her, pace back and forth, losing her mind. Watching the circles of gears spin in her world.

"We hardly spoke after he got the job, he would just escort me everywhere. I wondered what his problem was. He told me we were getting older, we had to be professional, stop acting like kids."

"I'd ask all the time, how his grandparents were, he would always change the subject, or say they were fine."

She's spiraling.

"Rhea, what do you remember about his grandparents?" I ask, bringing her attention back to the real matter.

She stops in place, coming back to reality.

"Anne and Beckett Henderson."

"So, where do Darius and Valera Dixon come in?" Dal questions.

I look at Rhea, wondering if I should speak my mind. "Rhea," I pause, unsure, "is there a possibility that his grandparents were working for you under aliases?"

"But Allen, his last name is Henderson."

I sigh, my eyes burning into hers, "what if, and hear me out, what if Allen had an alias too?"

The fragility and warmness in her vanishes, she becomes guarded, defensive, "No. No he wouldn't."

"Rhea, how well did you know Allen?"

"Are you seriously asking this? He was my best friend, I've known him since we were kids!"

"Windsor, I'm not the enemy here, I'm trying to help," I take a step closer.

"Where is Allen now? Why don't we just ask him?" Dal asks.

Fuck. Wrong question.

I look at him, warning him, trying to give any signal to shut the fuck up.

He stares at me, clueless.

"He was your guard, right? Why isn't he here now?"

"Dal," I warn.

Rhea looks sick, physically sick like she's going to pass out any moment.

"We don't have to talk about thi-"

"He's dead," she whispers.

Dals mouth snaps shut. He stares at her, pity leaking out of his eyes.

"A bullet straight into him," she continues, "he was murdered."

I want nothing more than to grab her, hold her until she's okay. Really okay, no longer feeling pain, no longer feeling numb to the harsh realities that cloud her mind. But I don't know how to do that. If I did, I'd do it for myself.

Her voice changes, becoming stern, focused, "Let's say he had an alias, now what? He became a guard, became my best friend, for what?"

I clear my throat, "revenge. Let's say your parents did kill his grandparents. That would be more than enough to hate them, hate.. you."