Page 101 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Then back down Main Street where, a few short turns away, the Barter warehouse stood.

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

His keys dug into his hands as he put them back in the ignition. “I think I know where she is. Don’t worry, Mrs. Leake. I’m gonna find her.”

Chapter 21

Bree

“Remember, it’s flap-heel-toe-heel, flap-heel-toe-heel, and then Maxie Ford pull back.”

Bree nodded at Birdie’s words and without slowing adjusted the clicking step to fit the sequence. In unison they stamped, shuffled, jumped, clicked the tips of their shoes in the air in the breath of a millisecond, and landed, tapping their right foot behind the left on the floor.

“Again,” Birdie said. “From the Maxie Ford.”

Sweat rolled down the back of Bree’s neck. Though the warehouse was 65 degrees, every inch of her black leggings and white leotard was soaked. Her thighs burned, calves burned, body burned, but at this point the sensation somehow just fueled her to keep going. Birdie had said it was her goal to brainwash Bree’s body over the course of their limited practice time. Well, she succeeded.

“You’re scraping the toes in the air, not clicking. Do it again.”

Bree obeyed.

Birdie stood there watching Bree with her hands on her hips, her own ponytail damp. She nodded. “Good. Again.”

Bree jumped into the air and clicked her tap shoes in smooth tap-tap-tap precision.

She did it a fifth time, a sixth, a seventh. At the eighth Birdie turned toward the CD player. “Good. Let’s do it with the music.”

Both of them had pulled hard, full days, especially since Kayleigh’s Off-Broadway friend had sauntered onto the scene. It didn’t take but a few hours for gossip to confirm their suspicions, and while some of their peers threw in the towel then and there, Birdie never stopped working. After Bree’s conversation with Chip over chili, she didn’t either.

What had he said?

“Is anything worthwhile ever easy?”

Well, here she was, eating, sleeping, and breathing tap dancing, cramming years’ worth of lessons into a matter of days, hoping it worked. Just enough to be a chorus girl.

Not a lead.

Just a chorus girl.

That was all she needed.

Violins and drums blasted cheerily through the speakers as only 1950s musical numbers could, and Bree jumped into formation with a lively smile as she placed her hands on her hips. She watched herself in the broad mirror and straightened her posture as she exhaled, waiting for the beat.

Four. Five. Six. Seven. And—

On the seven-and-a-half beat, as she was preparing to lift her right toe, her eyes shifted to a movement in the mirror. To the reflection of the door opening. And the man who entered.

Her arms lowered slowly.

She turned.

Of all the people in the world—Chip? He stopped just inside the warehouse. Looked at her.

But it wasn’t his presence that concerned her most.

Or that he knew where she was.

It was his expression: the hard eyes, creased forehead, not even a snicker of a trick on his lips.