Chapter 2 #2
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 parrot 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.”