Free The Siren's Dance by Amber Belldene

fresh coat of ivory paint to the building’s exterior.
    Sure enough, all these years later, there was still an Académie de Ballet next door. The afternoon had grown dark in the canyon between the five and six story apartment buildings, but the studio glowed warmly, with its mirrors and natural oak-colored floors brightly lit and inviting.
    “Is this it?” His body suddenly thrummed with excitement, the way he sometimes felt when he stumbled across a detail that promised it might just crack a case.
    The ghost worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Yes. The awning is different, and the name. But, yes.”
    Could this be the moment he’d been waiting for? Could his father be in there, lounging on a musty sofa and reading a newspaper in the back office where he’d stowed Anya? Sergey could barely suck in a breath.
    Cars had parked bumper to bumper on the street, but a red curb in front of a fire hydrant stood vacant. Why the hell not? He could make some excuse to get out of a parking ticket, or better yet, just let Lisko pay for it.
    Hand on the door handle, he said, “Be right back.” But then he remembered her fear outside his apartment, her post-cyclone sheepishness, and turned to look at her.
    She stared, eyes wide, at the facade of the Académie , her mouth pressed into a grim line. He gripped the steering wheel hard at the thought of what she must be remembering, of what a monster like Demyan might have done to her and countless others in this place--might have done to his mother.
    He inhaled through his nose, taking a moment to pause and get it together so he could offer her a credible bit of reassurance. “Anya.”
    She looked at him. Set in her beautiful face, diamond-dusted and translucent, her dark eyes swirled ever darker with emotion. Her fear came to him in the space between them like a crackle of static electricity.
    “I’ll come back. No matter what I find in there, I won’t leave you alone for long.”
    Her lips pulled wider, not quite a smile, but it was something. “Thanks.”
    He patted the console firmly, the way he might give his partner, Pavel, a reassuring thump on the back, and then he slid out of the car. At the glass door of the studio, he got a clear view of the interior, where a woman sat on the floor, one leg angled outward, straight and long, the other bent at the knee. She’d folded herself over a clipboard on the floor, as if she were planning a class and stretching at the same time, and she glanced up when he opened the door.
    “Hello?” Her auburn hair was pulled into a bun and strands of gray streaked it at the temples.
    “Hi.” He stuck his thumbs into his pockets. “I’m Inspector Sergey Yuchenko, Kiev Politsiya .”
    “How can I help you?” She sat up straight and then rose gracefully to her feet, clearly fit even if she was easily forty-five or fifty.
    “I’m looking for a man who may have owned this studio in nineteen sixty-eight. Stas Demyan.”
    The corners of her mouth turned down, and she shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
    “Do you rent the space?”
    “No, I own it, for ten years. And I bought it from another dancer Madam Smirovski, not someone named Demyan.”
    “I see.” Maybe he would head down to the city archives and pull a list of previous owners. Good chance those old property records were never turned into electronic data. Maybe he’d even find Demyan listed there. He tried another tack. “Did you study dance in Odessa? My mother was a ballerina here--she danced in the early eighties, probably a little before your time.”
    She smiled at that. “Not so long before. But, no, I’m from Minsk, and I studied there. Does she still dance, your mother? I’m always looking for experienced teachers.”
    “No, I’m afraid she gave it up completely. But I understand this Demyan fellow was quite important at one time. He directed the National Ballet for several years. Would you mind asking around?” Sergey pulled out his wallet and