Page 6 of Knife Thrower

“And that’s why the act would sell.”

The tent flap snaps open, and Matt from lighting sticks his head in with a tablet against his chest, then retreats when Elias lifts one finger. Elias stands and walks to the desk’s edge, and he slides a printout across the wood as though he’s dealing me a losing hand.

“I ran it while you were sneezing.”

I don’t touch it. “Numbers.”

“Big Top ticket sales, projected twenty-two percent lift with a two-person act. VIP seating add-ons, another eleven. Merch.” He taps a line. “Somebody in Tulsa already sells a T-shirt with a stick figure and the words Don’t Flinch. We could sell that.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That’s a budget.”

“It’s a bribe, and it’s a good one, and I hate it.” I flick the page back at him. “I’m still saying no. I’ve been saying no all week. It’s a matter of principle. What if she’s boring? What if she’s a he? What if he’s boring and a he? Nobody has ever looked at my act and thought, you know what this needs? A person standing in front of it. It has fine bones. It’s a masterpiece. You don’t put a hat on the Mona Lisa. And another thing⁠—”

The flap snaps open again.

She walks in, and the rest of the sentence dies in my throat.

Pale hair, scraped back so tight it looks painful. Straight nose, straight mouth, a jaw set like she picked it out of a catalog for people who never lose an argument. Jeans, boots, a fringed leather vest gone soft as flannel and about forty years too old for her. She crosses the sawdust without a wasted step, and stops at the chair in front of the desk. She doesn’t sit. Her arms hang loose at her sides.

My mouth stays open. I can feel it. There’s a draft.

Beside me, Elias makes a sound in his nose.

I don’t turn my head. I keep my eyes on the woman and keep my lips still as I speak from the corner of my mouth. “I’ve changed my mind. We do need a knife catcher.”

“I noticed,” Elias mutters. “So did the lion.”

“Shut up.”

“Welcome.” He lets his voice go smooth, ringmaster on. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

Elias pauses for half a second. “Name.”

“Sloane Archer.”

“Experience.”

“Six years. Bars, fairs, one rodeo in Amarillo. Three years under Walt Brannigan, three on my own.”

“Brannigan,” I say. “The Walt Brannigan? Fringe vest, smells like mouthwash?”

Her eyes shift to me, and they’re blue like ice over deep water. “He’s dead.”

I wince. “Sorry.”

“He’d have wanted the mouthwash at the funeral.”

I huff out a laugh, and the corner of her mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. That’s a first. Nobody gets through a Cole Pike laugh with a straight face. I count that as a personal insult and a challenge.

“Who was your last thrower?” Elias asks.

“Danny. Tulsa, mostly.”

“And why did Danny leave?”