Disclaimer:

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc...
are the property of their respective owners.
The original characters and plot are the property of the author.
The author is in no way associated with the owners,
creators, or producers of any media franchise (though I really really wish Psych was mine).
No copyright infringement is intended. If it were, I would say so.
After all, I have long believed brutal honesty is the best policy,
and yes, that outfit does make you look fat.

Prologue:

For Jenna Hashberger dancing was her life. When the music came on,
it was like her feet started to move of their own volition.
It was the one time when she could forget that in her twenty-three years she had been through more pain than most people experienced in their lives.
Even now, she was only free when she danced. Even when she slept,
her dreams were haunted by images, images of what had been, and what had almost been.
But for once, instead of being about her past, when Jenna danced,
it was about the music, the soft brush of the silk ballet shoes against the wood floor,
the sigh of fabric as she pirouetted, the stretch of time-hardened muscles,
the damp feeling of sweat coating her limbs,
the whip of her hair as she fell back to the floor after her torjete,
still feeling as if she was flying It was because of this she didn t notice the person behind her,
watching her as she danced, her eyes closed against the glare of the spotlight,
blonde hair glinting in its high ponytail and a sad smile gracing her lips.
She didn t see the grin or the raised arm, didn t even notice the blow until it hit her,
and everything went black,
the music in her head obliterated by the last sound she heard, the laughter. A sound that haunted her dreams and caused many sleepless nights.

In the audience, hiding behind one of the seats, a little girl in a leotard clutched her hands to her ears and whimpered, tears spilling out of eyes clenched shut in fear. A few strands of light curls had slipped out of her barrettes and the wet strands clung to her tear-stained cheeks. A rough hand reached around her midsection and pulled her to her feet. She trembled.

"Time to go, Sweetheart, lets see what the Judges have to make of the score I'm settling."

At the sound of the voice, her eyes slipped open, only to be met by the darkness of a blindfold. She sobbed harder and the arm around her tightened, for a moment the grip almost painful, then relaxed.

"There, there, you aren't the one I'm after, you're just here to prove my point, and I'm not much of one to shoot the messenger."

Ten hours later, she showed up on the stairs to the Santa Barbara police station, shivering in shock and mumbling incomprehensibly, her thin arms wrapped tightly around her small figure as though she might shatter at any moment. The sign around her neck read:

'Be patient dancers,

one and all,

teacher had a little fall,

she won't be teaching anymore,

I'm 1 to 0 on this score,

let's see what you now can discover,

try a dancer undercover,

you have two days to prepare,

the challenge is now in the air,

the competition begins soon,

I'll see you dance to a different tune,

if by the end you don't succeed,

teacher's gravestone will you read,

if I find the one you send,

damage done will never mend,

For them both it shall be the end.'

Attached was a flyer for the California State Young Adult Dancing Competition (ages 5-30), beginning in two days, hosted this year, for the first time, in Santa Barbara California.