THE LAST DANCE
Then she had watched her fiancé put a bullet through a man's skull and smile while the blood spread across the marble floor.
The memory came without warning, as it always did. One moment she was counting beats and correcting posture and being the patient instructor these wealthy widows paid her to be. The next moment she was back in that hallway at the Lagos Charity Ball, the smell of jasmine and champagne and gunpowder thick in her throat. The man in the dark suit falling backward, his eyes wide with surprise—not pain, not fear, just pure, naked surprise, as if he could not quite believe that this was how his story ended. Emeka lowering the gun, his smile never wavering. Turning to her and