Page 33 of Jig's Last Dance

“Who?”

He smiles wider, but his arctic blue eyes send a shiver straight down my spine. Licking my dry lips, I rub my hands down my pants and glance around—anything to keep from meeting his slimy gaze. There’s something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but my brain is screaming at me to flee. Like right the fuck now.

“Marco.”

He cocks his head. “There’s no one here by that name.”

Seriously? I watched Marco walk through the same damn door. What’s going on?

Whatever. I’m out.

Stalking to the door, I pause when he says, “Leaving so soon?”

My stomach drops to my toes, and I turn to him with a tepid smile. I want nothing from this dude.

John raises a brow, and I suppress a hysterical giggle. This fucker looks like he’s about to go to church, for fuck’s sake. But the stare, the fucking stare, pushes me to run and not look back.

“Um, yeah. You know, homework.”

It’s a completely nonsensical comment, but I don’t care. Turning to the door, I exhale when I grab the knob. Whatever. I’ll just forget this weird-ass interlude ever happened.

Yanking on the door, I stumble back when it shudders and falls forward before rolling my eyes. Who would ever choose to live in this shithole?

People with something to hide, my subconscious whispers, and I shudder.

The door is now half in the actual threshold, and I bump into the table beside it, knocking it over in my haste.

“Oh, sorry,” I say reflexively, fumbling to right the table before picking up the shit that fell beside it.

John’s gaze burns a hole in my back as I drop the items back where they belong with sweaty fingers, only to pause on the keychain. It’s a ceramic heart colored a hideous green hue, exactly the way I painstakingly painted it in fifth grade.

For a moment, I stare at the damn thing like it might bite me, remembering the smile on my dad’s face when I presented the Father’s Day gift and how he convinced me it was perfect despite the lopsided shape.

Say what you will about my dad and his career choices, I knew he loved me, and I miss him so fucking much.

Grabbing it up, I turn it over and sway when I see my initials on the back. AMP.

“Where did you get this?” I whisper, blood rushing to my head.

Holding out my hand, I present the keys. What’s going on? What the fuck is going on?

“What?” John says, and I shake my hand.

John follows my fingers, his creepy as fuck pale eyes considering. “The keys? They’re Iris’.”

“Iris?” I say, looking at her lolling on the couch like a broken doll.

That makes no sense. Why would my dead father’s keys be in this disgusting house with this creepy asshole?

“Where? Where did you get them?” I rasp.

“Iris?” John says, and she swings her head in our direction, blinking.

There’s nothing behind those eyes but darkness, and inexplicably, I feel bad for the girl. She’s lost, like really fucking lost.

“Well, baby?” John says, grabbing her hair. She barely flinches, but it’s still fucking horrendous when he wrenches her head back with a filthy smile.

Who the fuck is this guy?