It was funny that the girl who was her fiercest rival, who hated her more than anyone on the circuit, an American named Fiona Temple, hadn’t ever made her mark. Fiona, who had her own posse of mean girls, spread more dirt about Grace than anyone else, making sure everyone knew that while most hardworking parents got up at four to take their kids to training and borrowed against the mortgage to pay for it, Rich Bitch Izzy’s mother put her in a town car at dawn to be delivered to the rink. Fiona, who celebrated the most when Grace walked away, hadn’t done anything significant since. She had believed the only thing that stood in the way of gold medals was Grace, yet with Grace gone China and Russia wrapped up the medals.

The pressure to stay in the competition had been fierce from all quarters, from Winnie, from her team, from her country. “You do what you have to do, but until the day comes, say nothing!” Mikhail had warned her. “Telling is losing.”

Any other coach would’ve dumped her. In her circles, winning was everything. World-famous coaches don’t waste their time on competitors who want to quit. But he stuck with her, gave her everything he had and she worked her ass off for him. Mikhail wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but he loved her like a daughter, protected her and challenged her and to this day had not abandoned her.

So she went to her last competition, the biggest in the world, angry and determined to strike one final blow for everyone who depended on her. And she took it. Took it all. She took it home by a mile. Winnie had her gold medal. Fiona hadn’t even made the cut.

The back door to the shop rattled as someone tried to get in. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She had to take a couple of deep breaths and wipe her eyes before creeping to the door to see who it was.

“Gracie, what’s wrong?” Troy said. “You’re crying.”

“Don’t ask me why, just please go upstairs and make sure no one is up there, ready to jump on us and kill us,” she said.

“What?” he asked, aghast.

“When it’s safe, we’ll talk up there. I’m not sure if I locked the door, but some days I don’t. I’ve gotten so relaxed...”

“Grace, what the hell?”

“Please,” she begged. “You’ll understand as soon as I can talk about it. I was going to explain some things anyway. Before your friends came to visit, I was going to tell you so it wouldn’t be vague anymore...but for right now, can you please check? And be very careful!”

Troy shook his head and went upstairs. He looked around her loft thoroughly, but nothing seemed out of place. He was back down in less than two minutes. “It’s okay.”

“Did you look everywhere?”

He nodded. “Even in the kitchen trash and the refrigerator. Come on.”

She clutched an envelope in her hand. When they were sitting across from each other in her tiny kitchen she started to explain. “My real name is—”

“I know,” he said.

“You know?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I can’t fake surprise. You’re all over the fucking internet, Gracie. I don’t know how you felt, how you feel, but I know who you are. And that you won it all and walked away.”

“Do you know about the rumors? That I accused a coach of inappropriate sexual behavior with a minor? That I was sued? That there were stalkers? That everyone hated me?”

He shrugged. “I got most of the facts. I don’t know how anyone could hate you. Most of all, I don’t know why it’s a secret.”

So she started at the beginning, born into figure skating, the daughter of a champion and coach, the bullying from jealous girls, pranks aimed at hurting her skating, the exhausting training and travel and no friends.

“The coaches demanded everyone behave nicely toward each other, but when the coaches weren’t looking... The rest of them were all so close,” she said. “They shared hotel rooms to save costs and I stayed alone. My mother would rent big town houses that came with domestic help and everyone thought because of that, I had it so easy, why wouldn’t I do well? It came up in every interview and article—as if all we had to do was write a check and first place was mine. All I wanted, the whole time I was growing up, was to be like everyone else.”

“Nothing nastier than jealous teenage girls,” he said. He gave her cheek a little stroke.

“If I cried or pouted they called me poor little rich girl.”

“And yet there were millions of girls all over the country who watched you skate with envy and adoration.”

“But I never met them. The happiest day of my life wasn’t winning the gold—it was handing it to my mother and walking away.”

“Where did you go?”

“To Mamie and Ross. They were a couple without children who had worked for my mother since she was a girl—over thirty years. He was a driver and she was a housekeeper. They were always so good to me and when they left my mother’s employment they opened a flower shop in Portland. They trained me in the business.”

“Is there no other family?”

“Remember I told you about a cousin who wrote me asking for a loan?” He nodded. “That wasn’t a cousin and it wasn’t a loan. That’s a half brother, Barry, who is twenty years older than me. My father and his first wife divorced years and years before my mother knew him. He supported his ex-wife and Barry until Barry was twenty-one. He’s forty-eight now and has been asking for money his whole life, but I don’t remember even three times he visited. My dad gave him money sometimes—my parents fought about it. When my father died, he didn’t leave Barry anything. I don’t know where he is. Last I heard from him, when I told him there was no money, he was in Texas.”

Troy immediately smelled an ill wind. “Maybe Barry is still butt sore about that,” he said, tapping the envelope in her hand.

She handed it to him. “I never had a relationship of any kind with him—he was grown when I was born. No, this is just like the note I remember from years ago. The only one I saw before I was snatched.”

“Could he know exactly what was in it?” Troy asked, opening it up and looking at the typed sentence. I dream of you every night. B. “It’s signed ‘B.’”

She shook her head. “That’s Bruno. Bruno Feldman. The man who held me in a supply closet until the police came. He’s been in a psychiatric hospital and I’m told he’s out and with family somewhere in Florida. Barry doesn’t know that’s what the notes looked like. No one knows—just me, my mother, Mikhail...”