Page 62 of Eat. Prey. Love.
Fitz laughs, and I hear keys clicking rapidly. “We definitely need to watch this bitch with our girl. She’s one hundred percent body dysmorphic and her web shit is filled with bad juju in that realm. Lucille was a bad enough influence; I don’t want her hurt by some self-obsessed old biddy with an ax to grind.”
“True. Maybe you should finagle cameras in the studio?” Grunting in irritation, I move to a free-standing shelving unit in the middle filled to the brim with ballet shoes in various conditions. Some have to be from shows—they have dates on the shelf—and some must be working equipment. There’s a ton of colors and styles, but I don’t know my ass from my elbow about this shit. The gargoyle probably would, and he’s not here.
Maybe the display is showcasing more than her ego, though.
Pulling a pick kit out of my pocket, I get to work on the lock on this side of the fixture. It only takes a few moments for it to click open, and I gingerly push the glass aside with the tool. I don’t want to leave prints on it, so I nudge it the rest of the way and look at the ten shelves towering in front of me. I don't know Fabreaux at all—only what her bio and info Fitz dug up say. But since she’s obviously her own biggest fan, I assume anything important would be tucked into the rarest pairs.
“Any idea what the most famous ballerina roles are, bro?” I yell over my shoulder. He might not know, but he and Princess talk non-stop, so she might have mentionedthis shit.
“Um… the ‘G’ one. Damn, she said this,” Fitz hollers back. “Damn my brain. Gimme a sec and I’ll have it…”
I grin as he fumbles, not growling because he’s trying to recall something that’s probably very obvious. Being more patient with my twin has made everything easier, and even though I could probably have Googled it by now, I’m letting him sift through the chaos instead.
“I got it!”
“The laptop?”
“No, damn it. The ballet isGiselle. You can’t see me, but I’m doing the dance.”
My lips curve as he continues to babble, adding a few other options now that he’s on a roll. Fitz’s victory dance is much more fun to watch in person, but I’ve got shoes to search. “Good job.”
“Why the hell do you need to know anyway?”
I leave his question hanging for a minute as I carefully pull a pair of white shoes that seem like they’re damn close to falling apart. The smell of sweat and blood emanates from inside and I rear back a bit as it hits me. It’s one thing to have a cerebral knowledge of what happens to dancers' feet in their pointe shoes and quite another to have it invade your senses. Holding them gingerly, I use the pick tool to fish around inside to see if there’s anything in the stinky things.
Holy shit.
I’m able to maneuver the pick until it catches on the ring, and I watch with baited breath as I carefully lift the keys out of the shoe. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Fitz yells.
“Nothing. I found something, but I have no idea what the fuck it goes to. Keep working on the computer.”
He mutters an invective and I shake my head, sighing at his childish need to know everything immediately. I know it stems from his ADHD, but I need to get these things back in the case and check the other four ballets he rattled off before we get caught in this museum.
“Okay,Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Giselle, Sleeping Beauty, and Romeo and Juliet,” I repeat to myself. “Where the hell would the rest of you be?”
A bright red pair of battered shoes near the top catch my eye and I grin when the tag saysSleeping Beauty. I set theGisellepair back in their spot, then reach up to grab the red set. The shoes are all tucked one inside the other, with ribbons wrapped around them in the display, so I have poke around for a moment before I find the next treasure.
It’s a flash drive on a key ring and I guarantee it’s going to be a fucking bitch to deal with.
“Got a flash drive, man,” I call out before I place the shoes in their spot. “I have three more places to check. I don’t know if this is her only secret hiding place, though.”
“Who is this chick, anyway? She’s got military grade encryption on a machine she uses to troll other pro dancers on Instagrowl. Like, shit doesn’t match,” Fitz says with a grunt of annoyance. “And I do mean troll… because she’s absolutely fucking brutal to people who should be her colleagues. It’s gross as hell.”
“That’s on par with the level of ego in this closet.” I think about it for a moment, and add, “We know the parents like all ours raise kids to think their shit doesn’t stink. Fabreaux is a bit older than us, so she was probably put on this ridiculous pedestal and sees everyone as beneath her. I hate those people.”
Fitz snorts, and I can almost see him shaking his head as I’m fishing in theNutcrackershoes. “Nope. This woman literally hates herself; you can tell by this damn shrine. She needs everyone around her to worship at her feet. It’s a pretty sure bet Asani isfucking her to keep her on his side. That’s what she’d crave the most—the bad boy who thinks she’s a bad girl.”
Gross.
“Stop that shit. I donotwant to think about that in the slightest.” I shiver, feeling squicked by imagining my asshole cousin with anyone, especially this bird. “No need to analyze; we know she’s a bad egg because she’s in with him and his merry band of fools.”
“True. But I’m planting a virus in this system now so we can work on cracking her shit from my real equipment. We’ll know every dirty deed she’s been part of soon enough.”
Thank fuck. I’m tired of feeling up her nasty ass footwear.
Fight