DarkWeb by Talia Vines

Author:Talia Vines [Vines, Talia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: self-published

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Arriving at work was like being in a scene from Hitchcock's The Birds. From the moment I set foot in the stables, it felt as though everyone stared. During lessons, my riders were subdued, taking my apologies with somber nods and minimal talking. After hearing about the fire, one of my riders hugged me. Mark was right about the bruises. I flinched under her squeeze, pulling away.

"Sorry," she said in an awkward tone, her face full of questions.

I forced a smile. "It's OK, just sore."

Those sympathy hugs had been so common after my parents died. They’d wanted to give me comfort, but also wanted something in return– for me to melt into them, to weep. Back then, if I’d let go of my grief, I would have been left with nothing at all. And so, like now, I held myself back, stiff and tearless. Even though my reaction alienated the people trying to comfort me, I couldn’t stop.

After the lesson, I wandered to the main arena. A few of the Olympic hopefuls practiced jumps, and I stopped, pretending to watch them. Really, I studied the outside of Kay Strand's office, high above the arena. The lights were still out, the huge windows empty. What had happened up there? Where was Kay now?

"Decided to show up after all." Mr. Strand strode toward me.

"Mr. Strand, I'm so sorry," I started. "My house, and there was a—" My excuses came out garbled, shocked by his palpable, seething anger. He clearly wasn't interested in anything I had to say.

"You're done here." He whipped out a clean white envelope and slapped it against my forearm hard enough to sting. "Clean out your locker. I want your keys today."

Fired? "But my clients—"

"Ten minutes. Then I want you off the property or I'll have security remove you." His attention flickered toward Kay's office, and in a lower voice he added, "I hope you rot in jail."

"Mr. Strand... please," I whispered. How could he say that?

In answer, he threw the envelope to the packed dirt floor and stalked off. Every rider in the ring had stopped their Olympic pursuits to watch.

Don't you dare cry, I told myself as I crouched to pick up the envelope, a tear already running down the side of my nose. Shoulders squared, I went to the locker rooms. It took only a few minutes to clear the locker I'd had for two years.

Outside the locker room door, a barrel-chested guy in a black T-shirt waited. He held out his hand. "Keys, please," he grunted.

Security walked me to my car. Inside the little Honda, I opened the envelope. A check for the hours I'd worked this month, nothing else. No explanation, no notice, just digits. I gasped, expecting panic to knock me out of my shoes. Nothing came but numbness. After a while I trusted it enough to start my car and drive away.

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