Chapter 2
Two
The next two hours go by in a blur. It’s kind of hard to focus and be present in the moment when you have a blackmailer threatening to expose your crimes to the authorities.
Even so, somehow I didn't fuck up too badly in class.
Poor Melinda kept falling out of her turns, and everyone else's minor ballet misdemeanors were ignored as she received the full weight of Mr. V. 's unhappy attention.
“Dinner and drinks on me, birthday girl,” Henry says, attaching himself to me like an octopus as we exit Studio B.
I want to laugh at his antics, but I can't. I have to go to the old opera house.
Tell no one. Bring no one. What if it's a friend of Conall's who wants personal revenge?
The possibility sends a chill down my spine.
“I can't. I have somewhere I have to be tonight, but we can do it tomorrow. I promise.”
Henry looks suspicious. “Girl, if you think I'm going to let you snuggle in bed and binge-watch TV and cry into a rice cake about your aging grizzled self, you are out of your mind. It's your birthday, and we're going to celebrate, because I, for one, am glad you've made it another year.”
“I'm so tired. I got no sleep last night. I have to rest. Please. I need to come to terms with twenty-four and regroup. Tomorrow, I swear,” I plead. This is actually a convincing lie. The angst of twenty-four cannot be overstated.
He sighs. “Okay, fine. But we will celebrate, so prepare yourself.”
I force a laugh at that.
I know the only reason he's letting this go is because I look like shit. Murder and insomnia will do that to a girl. He hugs me again.
“But don't binge-watch. Sleep. Promise me. And use that milk and honey mask I gave you. You need it. Don't get me started on those circles under your eyes.”
“Yes, Mother. I promise.” I wish I could tell Henry. I wish I could tell anyone about the expensive white card nestled inside the birthday wishes in the glittery gold envelope.
The old opera house is a historic landmark.
I don't think it's actually officially on the registry of protected historic buildings, but nobody wants to tear it down.
At the same time, the city doesn't have the money to restore it, and no wealthy benefactors have come forward to fund such an ambitious project.
So it sits in limbo—a ghost clinging to this world—and no one else can let it go, either. Neither living nor dead, the building stands enormous, imposing, creepy as fuck. There is no good to be had in this building. It's probably not even unlocked.
I try one of the elegant front doors. Yep. Locked. But then I realize there’s a small rolled-up paper slipped under the handle. I pull it out.
The side door, Ms. Lane.
What an asshole. Somehow this note makes me think whoever is in the building isn't going to kill me.
I don't know why I think that, but this little bit of sarcasm makes me irrationally think that at least my life is safe.
I can feel the eye roll in the note. It's exasperation—like this person knew I'd try the front door, which of course wouldn't be unlocked.
But why would any door be unlocked? Whoever this is obviously has a key.
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.