Chapter 6 - THE TANGO STUDIO THAT STILL HAD HIS NAME
The Brooks Dance Studio stood between a laundromat and an empty storefront on Chicago's Northwest Side.
Its sign had faded.
The windows needed cleaning.
And the wooden floor had developed a slight dip near the mirrors.
But when I unlocked the door, the familiar smell of waxed wood and old sheet music wrapped around me.
For a moment, I was six years old again.
Dad stood in the center of the floor, holding out his arms.
Again, Emmy. This time, listen to the pause.
After his death, Rachel and I kept the studio open for another year.
Then the expenses became impossible.
We closed the doors but retained the lease while trying to decide what to do.
Every month, I used part of my earnings to prevent the remaining belongings from being discarded.
Now I stood inside with the ledger beneath my coat.
And Grant Whitmore stood beside me.
He looked around.
“This is where you learned?”
“Yes.”
He studied the mirrored wall.
“Your father taught here?”
“For thirty years.”
He looked toward the photograph of Daniel and my mother hanging near the entrance.
Then asked, “Can I see where he worked?”
I led him into the little office.
Dad's filing cabinet stood beside a desk scarred by decades of coffee cups.
Most of the drawers were empty.
But a false bottom beneath the lowest one still held a small envelope.
I hadn't remembered it until Eleanor mentioned the old financial investigation.
Inside were copies of letters.
One had been written to Thomas Whitmore.
Another to a bank.
And one, never mailed, was addressed to me.
My fingers trembled.
I opened it.
My dear Emily,
If you're old enough to read this, I hope you've already learned that people can take away your job, your house, and your reputation, but they cannot make you dishonest unless you agree.
I made mistakes by trusting people who valued power more than truth. I also made mistakes by becoming so consumed with proving myself right that I forgot how much my family needed me.
I want you to remember the dance studio, not the scandal.
Keep dancing, sweetheart.
Love, Dad.
I covered my face.
For seven years, I'd carried the belief that my father died disappointed.
That he felt defeated.
Now I understood he wanted something else for us.
Freedom.
Grant stood quietly by the door.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't offer money.
He simply waited.
When I finally lowered the letter, he asked, “Would you show me the dance your father taught you?”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I think I owe Daniel Brooks the courtesy of understanding something he loved.”
I almost smiled.
“Take off your jacket.”
Grant blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“And loosen your shoulders. You dance like you're negotiating a hostile takeover.”
For the first time that morning, he laughed.
We danced without music at first.
I counted softly.
One.
Two.
Pause.
Grant followed.
He was good, but impatient.
He wanted to anticipate every turn.
I stopped him.
“You keep deciding where I'm going before I get there.”
He looked puzzled.
“Isn't that leading?”
“No. It's pushing.”
I stepped back.
“My father said a good dancer gives direction without taking away the other person's balance.”
Grant stared at me.
Then nodded.
“Try again?”
I smiled.
“Try again.”
For the next twenty minutes, we moved across the old floor.
No audience.
No champagne.
No promise made for laughs.
Just two people trying to understand the same rhythm.
When we finished, Grant looked toward the photograph of my father.
“He was better than me.”
I laughed.
“Much.”
Grant smiled.
Then became serious.
“Emily, I want to help restore his name.”
I looked down.
“Because you feel guilty?”
“Partly.”
“Then guilt isn't enough.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I studied him.
“Find the truth. Whatever it says about your family.”
Grant met my eyes.
“I will.”
Outside the studio, a black SUV waited across the street.
I noticed it as we locked the door.
The engine started when we approached Grant's car.
He saw it too.
His expression hardened.
“Get in.”
I hesitated.
“Grant—”
“Please.”
I entered.
The SUV followed us for three blocks, then turned away.
Grant called his attorney.
“Olivia, someone is watching the studio.”
A pause.
Then his expression changed.
“What do you mean, they've filed a complaint?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“The Hale family has accused us of unlawfully retaining confidential company records.”
I stared at him.
He continued listening.
May you like
Then his jaw tightened.
“They want the ledger surrendered immediately.”
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