“I keep attendance myself.”
“No, I mean—” Rachel stopped because her voice had risen, and one of the younger dancers inside glanced toward the glass. She lowered it again. “Derek brings her. I’ve seen him leave with her. Scott has seen him. She comes home in her dance clothes. Sometimes her hair is still pinned.”
“I know what she comes dressed in,” Mara said. “I also know who has been inside my studio.”
Rachel felt a pulse begin behind her right eye, the warning throb she got before certain hospital meetings when someone had made a catastrophic mistake and every person at the table was still pretending it might be paperwork.
“Maybe she’s been late. Maybe she’s been sitting out because she hurt something and didn’t tell me.”
Mara’s face softened, but only slightly. “Rachel.”
The use of her name did it. Not Mrs. Mercer. Not Audrey’s mother. Rachel.
