We took a short break then, Brewster leaving and Cel pacing from one side of the room to the other before leaning against the mirror.
Getting up, I crossed the room to Cel, who had his forehead pressed to the glass of the two-way mirror. I didn’t ask anything stupid like was he all right, instead just standing there, close to him.
“The detectives have been nice to me,” he said woodenly.
“That’s good.”
“Maybe they think I’m about to have a breakdown or something.”
“Probably. But that’s because they don’t know anything about the steely control of ballet dancers,” I assured him, “and about your strength in particular.”
He grunted. “I don’t feel that strong at the moment.”
“That’s okay.” I cupped his cheek in my hand.
He leaned into my touch, and I drew him to me, wrapping him in my arms, the feel of him against me calming my own hammering heart. Senan Weaver had been killed in front of him, and maybe it was only luck that Cel was alive. That thought was running around in my head, sending cold spikes of terror down my spine. I couldn’t lose him. I could never lose him.
“I’m so cold. I can’t seem to get warm,” he murmured, pressing his face to my chest.
I clutched him tighter.
“Did you notice Oakes’s breath?” he said, completely off topic. “I think he’s hungry.”
“Maybe he is.”
“So many dancers skip meals to maintain their weight, and I always want to tell them to eat something so I don’t pass out from their breath.”
I smiled at him. “You should impart your wisdom to them about eating whatever they want and then working their asses off after.”
He nodded. “It’s a terrible habit, starving themselves, but diet pills or cocaine are even worse.”
“You never did drugs,” I said, making conversation.
“Of course not,” he replied disdainfully. “I’ve never done anything that wasn’t natural because I never allowed myself a crutch of any kind.”
“Because that’s weak.”
“Yes,” he agreed stoically.
I took a breath. “What do you think happened?”
“I have no idea.”
An hour later,Cel was saying the same thing. Another hour after that, when he folded his arms and put his face down on the table, I told the detectives that the questioning was over.
“Clearly he doesn’t know anything, and all you’re doing is exhausting him.” Nothing productive was coming out of him remaining at the police station.
By then, Lincoln Palmer, Delon Mitchener, and the other dancers were being questioned, each in a separate interrogation room. From the dancers, the consensus was exactly as Cel had said. They all hated Senan Weaver and wanted him out of the company, but they had been hoping he’d return to San Francisco, not be murdered in a practice room.
“What are you going to do about Cel’s safety?” Ms. Karimi asked the detectives. “It’s obvious he can’t go home, so will you take him somewhere safe?”
“No,” I informed her. “He’s going to stay with me.”
“Is that safe?” Tildham asked me.
“I live in a secure building in Lincoln Park West,” I explained, then turned to the detectives. “And as I completely disagree with your assessment, I’m sure he’ll be quite safe.”
“What do you mean by that?” Brewster barked at me.