Page 95

REN

I sipped my tea in a café in the departure lounge. I didn’t have to go through security just yet, and may perhaps have been delaying. I didn’t want to leave, but here I was, and it had to be done. I could not stay and dance in the shadow of my father’s corruption. It just was not possible.

I set my cup down next to the small stuffed toy Cam had purchased for me. Why I’d taken it from my bag and set it down on the table, I couldn’t say. Perhaps as company.

I’d made the call to Dame Ashborne, I’d done the right thing, and I could only hope the information had reached Cam in time. He deserved to be here, to dance and show the world how brilliant he was.

I, unfortunately, would not see it.

And perhaps that was my penance.

I should have stopped my father long ago. I hadn’t, and now this . . . I only had myself to blame.

My gaze snagged the TV screen, silently playing highlights from the Winter Games. And there was Cam, performing on the ice, his and Zoe’s program slowed down to highlight its technical brilliance. Precision, style, musicality, choreography, and passion.

I would never get over him, never stop admiring him, perhaps . . . never stop loving him. Would he want me, after he learned the truth?

My father spoke of sacrifices. Mine was losing Cam.

I’d leave, he’d win, return to Canada . . . and he had his whole career, whole life ahead of him. Without me.

As it should be.

It burned, though, like a fresh wound in my heart that would scar. I was privileged to even have experienced what it meant to be a part of his life, his color and his chaos. I adored every second with him, and would treasure them forever.

I finished my tea, picked up the plushie, packed it into my bag, and cast one final look at the TV screen and Cam’s brilliant performance. He glided across the ice backwards, arms out, legs crossing over, so smooth. Beautiful perfection.

A nod, and it was settled.

It was time to go.

THIRTY-THREE

CAM

Traffic had snarled us to a stop. I could see New Chitose Airport, but it was still a five-minute drive, if we’d been moving.

“How long?”

The driver looked in his mirror. “Do not have magic wand.”

“I didn’t ask you to magic the traffic away, I asked how long.”

He grunted something in Japanese that probably wasn’t friendly.

I stared out the window at the gridlocked rows of cars. “Never mind. Let me out here.”

“Pay now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I flashed my card over the machine and flung open the door. “Thanks, man.” This was not somewhere I was supposed to be on foot. There were no footpaths, and the roadside was packed with piled snow.

I jogged down the line of cars, figuring they were all heading in the general direction of the airport entrance, then spotted the boxy entrance canopy. Someone honked, probably not at me. Under the canopy and on solid ground, I sped up and shoved through the doors, dashing into the vast arrivals and departures area. Inside, the multilevel atrium was loud, with stores, people lugging their bags with them, departure and arrival announcements . . .

I stood under the departures board.

London. Gatwick. I scanned the destinations, then realized it didn’t matter where he was going. If he’d gone through security, then I was already too late.

But there were multiple security areas, each covering different gates. I did need to know where he was flying into.