Page 13 of Knife Thrower

The Airstream sits in the dark, a silver loaf with the curtains drawn. No lamp. No slice of light under the door. I think of her sitting on the edge of that bed, boots on, spine straight, facing the deadbolt like it owes her money. Maybe she hears us. The wind carries every shriek out here, and Nova’s laugh could crack glass.

Or maybe she’s out cold, curled up and cozy.

I can’t picture that one. It feels off.

But I do wonder if I crossed her mind even once.

“Cole.” Jules waves a hand in front of my face. “Earth to hilt.”

The table erupts again.

I flip her off and grin, and I keep my eyes off that dark window for almost a full minute.

4

SLOANE

The dream slips away before I can really make sense of it.

I don’t remember the details, just a flash of a yellow rainboot and a laugh that echoes in my skull. If it’s a ghost haunting me, I never want it to leave.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling as the silence in the trailer presses down on my chest. I wait for the familiar burn behind my eyes, but it never comes. I don’t cry anymore. The grief is a stone I carry around every waking hour, and I wish I could purge it with tears like a normal person. But when has my life been normal? I was abused by my stepfather as a teenager, had his baby, loved the little girl more than anything in this world, and then I lost her. Now it’s just me and this pain that doesn’t even make me cry anymore.

I take a deep breath, push the blanket off, and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor is cold, and I’m glad of my stupid quirk of wearing socks to bed. I pull on a pair of faded denim jeans and a plain gray tank top, then twist my hair up into a tight knot at the base of my skull. It’s routine. Nothing loose. Nothing to catch a breeze or a blade.

The deadbolt clicks loudly in the quiet when I unlock the door. Then morning air hits my face, carrying the lingering scent of fried sugar, diesel fuel, and damp earth. The carnival sleeps. The midway is a skeleton of steel rigging and striped canvas, empty and still. I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking. I don’t have a particular destination in mind. I just need to map the exits, memorize the layout, figure out the blind spots. Old habits die hard.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind a row of game booths. I turn, my weight shifting to the balls of my feet, but the tension bleeds out of my shoulders a second later.

A woman leans against a ticket counter holding two paper cups of coffee. She’s tall—nearly six feet of long legs in biker boots and black leather pants. Short, vivid blue hair catches the early sun, framing a face with sharp cheekbones and dark brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

She holds out one of the cups.

My first instinct is to decline, turn a corner, and disappear. But there is something grounded in her stare. She looks like a woman who could spot a lie from a mile away and would happily call you on it.

I walk over and take the cup. The cardboard burns my palm in a good way.

“Jules,” she offers, bumping her cup against mine.

“Sloane.”

“I know.” She pushes off the counter and falls into step beside me, setting a lazy pace down the midway. “Elias is my husband. He told me about the audition.”

“And you wanted to see the woman stupid enough to take the job.”

Her mouth curves up into a smile. “Something like that.”

Jules points out the landmarks as we walk. She points to a massive black-and-red striped tent towering over the rest. The Big Top. She points toward a row of power generators and a cluster of trailers, rattling off names and roles with the efficiency of a tour guide.

“Silas handles the tech and the money. If a camera exists within ten miles, he’s tapped into it,” Jules explains, taking a sip of her coffee. “Jonah’s the strongman. Don’t let the size fool you, he’s a giant marshmallow unless you cross him. Logan eats fire. Rowe handles the animals, but don’t touch him unless you want Logan setting your shoes on fire. Marek reads the cards.”

I absorb the information, filing it away. “And the ringmaster?”

“Elias manages the chaos.” She smirks, the sapphire and ruby rings on her left hand catching the light as she gestures. “Or tries to. Depends on the day.”

We turn past a carousel, the wooden horses frozen mid-stride. Jules takes another slow sip of her coffee.

“So. What do you think of Cole?”