Chapter 7: I Studied Ballet as a Child, But My Feet Were Too Big
Samantha's POV
"We might be dealing with a serial killer." The marker squeaked against the whiteboard as I wrote out the timeline. My handwriting looked shaky even to me. "This note proves the killer's already planning his next move."
Chief Richards dragged both hands down his face. The guy looked like he'd aged ten years since this morning. "You're telling me someone else is gonna die tonight?"
"Unless we find the next target before midnight." Sarah was working her phone, fingers flying. But I caught her glancing at the wall clock every few seconds.
A serial killer case on my first day. With a fucking countdown timer.
The station buzzed with that frantic energy you get when everyone knows they're racing against time. Every cop in the building understood what was at stake - another girl's life hanging in the balance, and us scrambling to catch up to a psycho who was already miles ahead.
Don't screw this up, Samantha. People are counting on you.
"Her roommate should be here any minute," Richards said. "Jennifer Mills. She's the one who found the body."
Please have something useful. Please don't let this be another dead end.
Jennifer Mills looked like she'd been crying for hours. Red eyes, clutching tissues like they were the only thing keeping her together. She was maybe twenty, with that shell-shocked look I'd seen on other victims' families.
"Emma was really nervous lately," Jennifer said, voice barely above a whisper. "She kept saying someone was watching her. Following her around."
My pen hovered over my notepad. "Did she get anything weird recently? Gifts, letters, anything strange?"
Jennifer's face lit up. "Yeah! These bizarre ballet shoes showed up at our place about a week ago. Glass ones, like from Cinderella or something. But they were way too small for Emma."
Sarah looked up from her notes. "Did Emma keep them?"
"She threw them out after trying them on. Said they were pretty but totally unwearable." Jennifer let out a bitter laugh. "Her feet were too big. She always joked about that - said it was her biggest insecurity as a dancer."
Ice settled in my stomach. Whoever did this had been watching Emma, learning her fears, her weaknesses.
"Tell us about where Emma danced," I said.
"Swan Lake Ballet Academy downtown. She just got the lead in their production of Swan Lake. She was so excited..." Jennifer's voice cracked.
"We greatly appreciate your clue." After seeing Jennifer off, we immediately headed for that location.
The building was old-school fancy - dark brick, three stories tall, with skinny windows that made it look like the place was squinting at you. Ugly stone faces stuck out from the corners, mouths open like they were screaming. Sarah shivered as we walked up the worn steps.
"This place gives me the creeps."
Inside was a weird contrast - beautiful hardwood floors and high ceilings, but the walls were covered in photographs of young dancers. All girls. All beautiful. All looking perfect under studio lights.
And there, right in the center, was Emma Wilson in her Swan Lake costume. Someone had drawn a thick red X across her face.
"Jesus Christ," Sarah breathed.
My blood turned to ice water. "When was this done?"
The receptionist, a nervous woman in her fifties, wrung her hands. "I... I don't know. We found it like that this morning. After we heard about Emma."
They were here. The killer was in this building, marking their victim like she was already dead.
"Where's the head instructor?" Sarah asked. "We need to talk to whoever knew Emma best."
"Mr. Volkov is in his office. But he's really torn up about Emma's death. She was his favorite."
Michael Volkov's office was a shrine to ballet. Posters covered every wall, and glass cases held hundreds of vintage dance shoes. The man himself sat behind a massive desk, silver hair perfectly styled despite looking like an emotional wreck.
"Emma was my best student!" he burst out before we'd even sat down. "The most perfect swan I ever trained! Her death is totally a tragedy!"
His hands were shaking. He kept looking at Emma's photo on his desk. Either he was really torn up, or this guy could win an Oscar.
As I glanced around his office, I noticed the walls were covered with photos of him with various students. But one frame on his desk caught my attention. Unlike the other professional photos, this one showed Volkov and Emma in what looked like a casual moment.
While Emma smiled at the camera, Volkov's gaze was fixed entirely on her, his expression soft and adoring in a way that had nothing to do with professional pride.
"Mr. Volkov, we understand you were close to Emma," I said, pulling out my notepad. "We need to ask about her recent behavior. Any changes you noticed?"
"Worried? Why the hell would she be worried?" His voice cracked. "She was about to get everything she worked for! The lead role was hers!"
I studied his face carefully. The way he spoke about Emma wasn't like the other students - there was something more personal, more intimate in his tone.
I didn't expect an ordinary conversation would get him to share his thoughts, so I planned to be direct.
"What exactly was your relationship with Emma?" I asked, watching his reaction. "Did you have feelings for her beyond professional interest?"
Sarah quickly touched me under the table to alert me.
Volkov's face went white, then flushed red. His hands clenched into fists. "How dare you suggest... I am a respected instructor! Emma was my student, nothing more!"
I leaned forward, pressing the advantage. "But she was special to you, wasn't she? Out of all your students, Emma was different. Was it her talent that made her so special?"
"I want my lawyer," Volkov said, voice turning to ice. "I won't answer another question without legal representation."
Sarah jumped in fast, her voice all sweet and apologetic. "Sorry about that, Mr. Volkov. My partner's having a rough day - you know how it is, we all have our moments. We're not trying to accuse anybody. We just wanna find out who killed Emma."
"Actually, I did ballet when I was little, but my feet were way too big. Always hated how the other girls had those tiny perfect feet and could wear the pretty shoes." She shot me a quick wink as she said this.
Volkov totally changed. The angry look disappeared, and he actually seemed interested now.
"Ah yes, the foot thing," he said, leaning forward. "Happens to a lot of talented girls. The shoes - they're everything for a dancer. Wrong fit, and even the best dancer's gonna struggle."
"Bet you've got quite a collection," Sarah said, pointing at the display cases. "These are beautiful, but I'm guessing you have even cooler stuff somewhere else."
"Oh yes!" Volkov practically jumped out of his chair. "My private collection's downstairs. Some of those shoes are over a hundred years old, from the big Russian companies. Wanna see?"
Sarah smiled and winked at me real quick. "That'd be awesome! I always wondered what the professional vintage ones looked like."
Thank god we're back in. Sarah's a goddamn genius.
We followed Volkov down a narrow staircase. I'd expected maybe a small storage room with a few antique shoes.
I was dead wrong.
Cold air hit my face, and the sight before me left me speechless.