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the movie props?”
    Roger doesn’t answer.
    â€œRight, you collect things. But half this stuff looks out of place.”
    â€œThey belong right where they are,” he says.
    I must have struck a nerve.
    Roger pushes open a door at the end of the hall and motions me forward.
    A blast of cool air blows my hair back. I blink at the bank of overhead fluorescents, until my eyes adjust to the light. The first thing I see is a row of treadmills and elliptical machines. Behind it, manual equipment and several rows of free weights.
    â€œLittle late for cardio, Rog.”
    â€œYou mentioned blowing off steam—I thought this would suit.”
    Not quite, but I can’t exactly tell him what I really want is to boost the Chevelle in his driveway, kick it into gear, and tear up the Strip on the way to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop. I’d bet my last buck the Pawn Stars guys would take it.
    Something inside me snaps. “Guess you don’t know me after all.”
    His eyes go glassy. “Oh, I think you’re wrong about that.”
    He pulls out a tiny remote control from his vest pocket and pushes a button. At the far end of the gym, a wall slides left to reveal a “secret” room. Blood pounds through my veins, and my heart is a drum beating a war chant of protest. It can’t be—
    But of course it is.
    Soft light shimmers off the shiny polish of a long ballet barre.
    Roger clears his throat. “I had this installed for you yesterday.”
    His words turn to white noise and tangle inside my head, like a tape recording played back at slow speed. Snippets of conversation cut through the muddle.
    â€œ. . . gave up dance to support your sister . . .”
    â€œ. . . inspire you . . .”
    â€œ. . . join ballet again.”
    Emotion bubbles up inside me as I allow the dreams to unfurl. My toes itch to point. The muscles in my legs begin to unwind. I squeeze my eyes shut to block the images of the past, forcing myself not to wish, not to dream. This can’t be real. None of this is.
    I swat at tears gathering in the corner of my eyes and suck in a deep breath. Clear away the nostalgia that’s sure to cloud my focus. My face grows hot with anger.
    What a fucking joke.
    Does Roger think I’m an idiot? Obviously the barre is nothing more than a smoke screen for Roger’s true ruse—there’s no other explanation.
    I spin around to face him, my teeth clenched. “I see right through you.”
    At his shocked expression, I keep going, renewed conviction fueling my words. How stupid to have let my guard down, even a little. “Cut the crap, Roger. What are we really doing here?”

5
    RESTLESS ENERGY THRUMS THROUGH MY system.
    Trouble is, I can’t tell if it’s because Nick’s thigh pressed up against mine is doing something to my equilibrium, or I’m scared shitless.
    Instead of answering my question, Roger asked the butler to stay with Emma and ordered the rest of us to get into his Town Car. I’m stuffed between Nick and Chelsea in the backseat, where the tension’s so thick you couldn’t four-by-four through it with a Hummer.
    I angle my body away from Nick, which only wedges my ass into his hip. There’s room for him to move closer to the window, but he doesn’t. He’s a damn brick wall. Except warmer. Heat radiates through two layers of denim.
    Mat shifts in the front seat. “Where we headin’, Rog?”
    No response.
    The gravel road bends and curves. In the limited range of the headlights, I can tell the side ditches are nothing more than desert sand and sagebrush, silvery under the glow of moonlight. Behind us, the pulsing Vegas Strip fades to a dull throb.
    The rhythm of my heartbeat clashes with Roger’s music. It’s classical. Ominous. I almost expect some dude in a hockey mask to jump in front of the car and go all chee-chee-ha-ha on us. Which is kind of