by Kitty Thomas
As I walk around to the side entrance, I try to think of who could know my secret. Did they see me at the house? Or at the boat? Or both? Did they follow me? Do I have a stalker? Again, is it a friend of Conall's? It's not like people don't know I dance at the company. It wouldn't be hard for anyone to slip in and drop a card into my locker—and not unusual, either, with it being my birthday.
I open the side door and step into the lobby. There’s a light coming from the concession stand, illuminating everything in a sort of creepy glow. Why is there electricity on? Surely the city would have shut it off. There was a rumor someone bought the place about a year ago. Still, it was just a rumor, and when nothing came of it, no renovations, no announcements, we all just went back to our lives.
There are a few popcorn boxes littering the floor and an old empty cup that once held some soft drink or other. There’s a thick layer of dust on everything. It looks like a zombie apocalypse swept through. I find the popcorn boxes strange. Is there some precognition about places shutting down? Does the cleaning staff just say 'fuck it' after that final night? Is there so little pride in the place that you can't at least make the effort to leave it nice even if you know no one else will ever see it again?
Then I realize the light is on at the concession area because there’s a sign propped up on the counter, and I'm meant to be able to read it.
Go to the stage, Ms. Lane.
I'm so tempted to run out of the building, get in my car, and just drive. Leave town. But then I get a hold on myself and take a deep breath. This person wants money. That's what blackmail is. Just give them the money and go on with life.
But the creepiness of this place has to be experienced to be appreciated. I keep looking over my shoulder every second, fearing my blackmailer will jump out and pounce on me. I'm the idiot girl in the horror movie doing all the stupid shit that leads to her grisly murder in the second act. But I don't have a lot of options here.
I can't go to the police because then they'll want to know what this person knows. Goodbye dance career, hello prison. What other choice do I have but to do what this person wants? And just hope it's an amount of money I have access to or that a payment plan is acceptable.
Conall didn't exactly give me carte blanche on the money. I'm not even sure yet how I'll handle that. He gave me a small allowance in a separate account, and everything else he kept blocked and private. A sudden panic seizes me as I worry Conall's money won't continue to support me. If he's missing, it will be a long time before he's legally declared dead. I might not have access to most of the money for a very long time.
I mean, the house is paid for, and the bills are on auto-pay. And I do get paid something as a dancer. Of course it's enough. I won't starve. I have a roof. I have clothes and everything I need. But it isn't enough to pay a blackmailer, not even a pittance. I swallow hard and fight back the tears at that thought.
I pass underneath a grand staircase that curves around on both sides. At the top is the second level balcony seating. I go through the middle set of double doors on the main floor. There is a spotlight on the stage, and a single practice ballet barre. A long rectangular table is upstage, stage left next to the wings. And there’s a chair pushed neatly under the table. Small theater guide lights in the floor illuminate just enough so I can see where I'm walking.
My heart is thundering in my chest. As much as I've tried to convince myself this person just wants money and I'll survive this night, I'm so scared right now I can't think. Somehow it propels me forward faster, like I just can't stand the anticipation of it all.
Whatever is going to happen here, I want to get it over with. I climb the steps onto the stage and stand in the middle, looking wildly around me... into the wings backstage, out into the audience... the balcony... the once-elegant private box seats.
A black vinyl dance tarp is taped to the stage floor. It's brand new. There are no shoe marks or indications that a single living soul has danced across it. This is recent. This was for today. I'm so confused. Why? Why has the stage been transformed into a dance floor? This has to be someone from the company. A principal? The ballet master? But how would they have seen me? Maybe it's a patron of the company. Could I have a stalker who stumbled upon my crime?
I was careful, but I didn't expect to be watched. I didn't expect that there might already be longstanding eyes on me—which is admittedly weird for a professional dancer, practically living onstage.
“Hello? Look, I can get you money. Hello?” I don't mention the limits of my ability to get money right now. I need to just find out my blackmailer's terms. Don't give them a reason to call the police.
There’s a crackling sound and then a booming male voice magnified over a speaker.
“I neither need nor want your money, Ms. Lane” It's a smooth, rich baritone. But I can't tell if the voice belongs to someone old or young. And I don't recognize it.
“Do you know he beat me? He threatened to kill me. What was I supposed to do? He practically owned this city. Do you know how much power he had? What other choice did I have?” I shout into the mostly empty theater.
“Do you know how much power I have?” he counters.
Obviously a lot if he can get into this building and have electricity running in it. “I don't deserve prison,” I say.
“Murder is a serious crime.” His tone is similar to the one you'd hear in the principal's office after being caught vandalizing a dumpster behind the school.
“Please...” I feel the hysteria bubbling over as my gaze continues to dart around the cavernous theater, trying to find where he's hiding, what perch he observes me from. “Please...” I say again... “You said you'd tell me your price. How much? Please. I'll pay you anything.”
“No, Ms. Lane. Not money. I have plenty of that. The price of my silence is your obedience.”
The stillness that follows this announcement is so complete you could hear a pin drop on the black dance tarp. What the hell does that mean?
“Empty out your dance bag in the center of the stage and spread out all the contents,” he says.
I freeze at that. There's a gun in my dance bag. I'm not that stupid, that I'd just go meet some mysterious blackmailer without going home to get a weapon first. I mean, come on.
“I want to remind you that we aren't in a 1940's noir film. I have a phone on me at all times, and I will use it to report you if you hesitate again.”
I take a deep breath. My hands are visibly shaking as I empty out the dance bag, arranging the contents, carefully concealing the gun in a dance sweater.
“What are you hiding from me?” the voice asks again.
I look around the otherwise empty theater, trying desperately to find the source of that voice.
“N-nothing!”
“Do you want to go to prison, Cassia?”
His use of my first name startles me. It feels too familiar in spite of everything.
The voice continues. “No. Lies. I want to see what you're hiding.”
I don't know how I thought I would get away with this. Did I think he'd just show up and confront me in some straight forward face-to-face way? Did I think he'd let me see him? Did I think I'd have a clear shot, and he'd just stand politely still while I put a bullet in him?
What the hell was I thinking?
“Last chance to save yourself,” he says, his patience running out.
I feel like I'll hyperventilate as I unwrap the gun from the sweater and lay it out on the brightly lit stage. I flinch and look around me as if he'll somehow swoop down, materialize on top of me, and rip me apart for daring to try to defend myself.
He chuckles. “Were you planning to build a body count? Gotten a taste for it, have you?”
“N-no,” I stammer.
“No, Sir,” he corrects. “I expect a basic level of formality and etiquette when we're in this space together.”
Everything inside me freezes at this. When we're in this space together.
But I just parro
t back, “No, Sir,” as I try to wrap my head around what is happening here.
“Good. Now put the gun on the table. You'll be leaving it behind when you go home tonight.”
A long breath flows out of me. I'm going home tonight. He's not going to kill me. Then I mentally chastise myself for that thought. He could be lying. He could be in the wings. He could snatch that gun and shoot me with it.
“I-I can't leave the gun,” I say.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“It's Conall's gun, he'll...” I was about to say he'll be angry. He'll hit me. I'm so scared I'm not thinking clearly.
“He'll what, Ms. Lane? He'll rise out of the ocean, reassemble, and come after you? Maybe he does have more power than me.”
“I just... I'm scared. I forgot...”
“You forgot you killed a man, chopped him up, and dumped him in the ocean?”
“I...” He's right. That sounds stupid. But it was only last night. Maybe I am in some kind of shock. The sense of unreality that my day started out in has only gotten worse as the day has progressed. And I'm so tired right now. Some part of me thinks maybe this is a dream. None of this is real. It can't be real.
I can't even remember cutting him up. I can't remember going out in the boat. I remember pieces of it. Showering the blood off. Gathering rocks. Dumping the bags into the water. But there are gaps. Big fucking gaps. Kind of like a dream. What is wrong with me? Is this normal? It's not like there’s some killer's anonymous support group I can call to find out what's normal in these situations.
“Now, put the gun on the table and no more weapons. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” I can hear the satisfied smile in his voice at my easy expression of formality and etiquette.
I struggle to my feet and try unsuccessfully to stop the tremors moving through me as I pick up the gun, cross the stage, and place it on the table. I sort of hover there, afraid to move away, afraid he'll jump out of the shadows and grab the gun.
“Go back to where you were and sit down. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. I don't need you to supply me with a weapon.”
He's right of course. Everything but the stage is dark. We're isolated in an abandoned building. He knows the layout of this place. I don't know where he is. He's no doubt much stronger than me physically. A gun really is overkill; pardon the pun.
I'm sure this man is with the company. I may not recognize his voice, but he is part of the ballet world. I know he set up this floor and this barre. It wasn't just something left behind. Our company is very strict and formal. No instructor or ballet master is ever referred to by their first name. It's Mr. or Ms. Last Name.
In certain circumstances, it’s Sir or Ma'am. Though silence is the rule of the ballet class. There’s very little reason to speak. You’re told to do something at the barre or in the center, alone or with a partner, and you simply do it. If you make a mistake, you are corrected. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you're allowed to do it again and fix your mistake in that moment rather than have to remember it for the next time.
Obviously, this man isn't going to tell me his name, so of course he will demand to be called Sir.
The disembodied voice fills the theater when he speaks again. He could be anywhere, but he's obviously close enough to have been able to see everything in my bag clearly—though he could have opera glasses to see the details on stage that his seat won't allow.
“Performances are Thursday night through Sunday night. Monday and Tuesday you have all day rehearsals. Wednesday you have off, and you return early Thursday afternoon to prepare for the night's performance.”
I know my schedule. But he wants me to know that he knows it, too. Just more evidence he's from the company.
“Therefore,” he continues... “you belong to me every Wednesday night from nine p.m. until midnight.”
“I... what?”
“That is my price, Ms. Lane. You will come here every Wednesday night, and you will obey me.”
“I...”
“Pick up the notebook and pen.”
There’s a dance notebook in the array of contents on the floor. I sit down like he'd previously asked me to and open the notebook to a fresh page. I keep choreography notes and corrections in there. A lot of dancers have these. It's what you do as a professional. I also write down schedules and other various company notes that might slip through the cracks of my mind.
“Make a note. When you arrive each Wednesday night, I want you clean and ready to work. I want you in either a medium gray or plum-colored leotard with a low open-scooped back...”
This is the point where if not for my ballet training, I would interrupt and say I don't have leotards in those two colors, to which he would no doubt tell me to get them. But I don't interrupt him because it just isn't done in my world. When the ballet master speaks, you simply listen. You never interrupt. And somehow my brain has clicked over into dance mode, and I can't bring myself to interrupt his list of orders.
He continues. “Pink tights, pink leg warmers. You may wear black hip warmers if you need them, but no ballet skirts. I want your hair up as you would wear it for class. No makeup. No jewelry. Bring both pointe shoes and ballet shoes. Canvas, not leather. And not dirty. Canvas shoes can be washed, and I fucking loathe when dancers don't take advantage of that fact.”
He stops. I wait. Finally he says, “Behind you on the barre is a blindfold. I want you to pick it up, go sit at the table, and put it on.”
There is, in fact, a black strip of cloth hanging off the edge of the barre. I hadn't noticed it when I first stepped onto the stage. I was too hyper-aware of all the spaces he could be hiding. Finally, all my etiquette training fails me.
“Please...” I say. “Please just let me go.”
“You can go if you like. Expect the police at your door in less than an hour.”
The tears slide down my cheeks.
“Shhh, Cassia, I'm not going to hurt you. I realize that's impossible to believe right now, but you don't have a lot of choices, so I suggest you take the risk.”
I push myself up off the floor and go to the barre. I don't want to go to prison. I want to dance. And this man could make all those dance dreams just stop... forever. There are a lot of other things he could do if I put on that blindfold, but he could do them anyway for all the reasons I've already acknowledged.
My only chance to have a life still worth living tomorrow is to do what he says. I take the scrap of soft black cloth and go sit down at the table. I put the blindfold on.
“Good. Now, place your hands on the table, palms down. And wait.”
I wait. Forever. Fall turns to winter and then spring in the space of this eternity. But then I sense him in my space. I feel the brush of air beside me, hear soft footsteps, and I long for the return of that eternity wrapped up in the brief few minutes I waited.
I want to run. I want to rip the blindfold off. But I'm afraid if I see his face, he'll pick up that gun—the weapon I stupidly hand-delivered to him—and just kill me.
Something heavy is placed on the table. Metal or glass, I can't be sure. But then I smell it. Food. Steam is rising up off the dish, wafting to my nose. Then something else, a lighter sound, then something like a glass. A cork pops. Liquid is poured into the glass.
“I'm sorry you missed your birthday dinner. Let me make it up to you. I made lasagna.”
I freeze. The tears start to flow down my cheeks again. “Please... don't...”
“Don't what? Don't feed you? You have to eat. And you haven't had dinner.”
He sounds so reasonable as he says this. As if any of this were reasonable. But I can't stop the tears. They only come harder. Lasagna is what I made last night for Conall. It's the food I poisoned. Why would he give me lasagna? Is he poisoning me? Maybe he's just a psychopath who wanted to toy with me for a little while and then kill me.
“This is a pretty strong reaction to lasagna,” he says mildly. “Why? Is it because t
hat was Conall's final meal? So, what? You're just never going to eat this food again? I make a great lasagna. You can't take this from me.”
“Is it going to kill me?”
He chuckles at that. “I told you, I'm not going to kill you. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use a gun, and I wouldn't use poison.”
His hands slide around my throat, and I tense. My palms are still flat on the table. I don't bother to claw at him because he doesn't squeeze. It's an object lesson. This is how he would do it... to answer my curiosity, to make me stop spinning the thousand ways I could die at his hands. This is the way he would do it. He would just wrap his hands around my throat... and squeeze. It would take almost no effort on his part.
The amount of power he has to hurt me in this moment nearly levels me. I'm about to have a full-on panic attack. But before I can reach that moment of sheer hysteria, he removes his hands from around my neck. Then he says, “Open,” and a steaming bite of lasagna is prodding at my mouth.
I'm still afraid it's poisoned. I can't help it. I don't know this person. And anyone who would do what he's doing... this sick, twisted blackmail... this desire to own my life like this... is not someone I can trust. But I have no choice. I open my mouth and hope it's not poisoned.
This is the best food I've ever had in my mouth. Holy fuck. This man could be a chef. It wasn't an empty boast; he really does make a great lasagna. For a moment I forget to be afraid it's poisoned. It's just that amazing. After a few bites, a glass prods at my lips, and I sip the red wine he offers.
When the food is gone, I hear dishes being removed and then there is another small plate in front of me. I know it's small because of the lighter sound it makes when it settles in front of me. And another glass. Another liquid. This time the liquid comes out of something with a cap you screw off. I can hear it. My hearing is so acute in this moment, listening for every single tiny clue for what's coming next, even as I'm terrified to know.
I flinch when I hear and smell a match being lit.
