Chapter 7
Seven
It's Wednesday. Two weeks have passed since the thing happened in the shower.
At our last meeting, nothing happened. Nothing sexual at least. I danced.
We danced together. I showered. Alone. Is he upset with me?
Has he lost interest? Did something happen in the shower that night that made him not want me?
Did he decide I wasn't something he wanted after all?
Is he angry? Is he punishing me for almost catching him in Mr. V. 's office?
I've spent the past week obsessing about this like some pathetic lovesick teenager.
Why doesn't he want me? Why hasn't he called me?
That's basically the thought train that runs through my head even though I know he would never call me.
It would leave a record. Evidence. A thin string tying the two of us together—not that I would ever pull the string.
I can't. It's mutually assured destruction.
Suddenly his whispered soon seems farther and farther away—a broken promise lying in shards between us.
I have masturbated like a sex addict since that night together in the shower, thinking of him each time.
Each time my fantasy gets dirtier, darker, so disturbing I wish I could make it stop.
But the more completely he owns and controls me in the fantasy, the stronger my orgasm, the louder my moan, which bounces off the walls of my bedroom.
There’s no one there to hear it, but he told me to make these sounds.
So I do. And somehow it seems to make the pleasure stronger when I don't hold them back—like a small reward for my obedience.
He didn't even ask at our last meeting if I followed this order. And yet still, I follow it as though there is no expiration date on his demand on my body.
I made several mistakes the last few performances. I can't believe how upset I am about him not touching me last week. I’m way off my game. If it gets any worse, the director could notice. I could be out of a job.
I've been in a fog. Henry and Melinda have noticed, but it's not like I can talk to them about this. How the hell would I explain it?
Does he want me to beg for it? Does he want me to shamelessly kneel and beg for him to come to the stage and fuck me?
Is that what this is? I'm afraid to do that.
What if he still rejects me? And why do I care?
How have I allowed myself to become so wrapped up in this man? Have I forgotten why he's doing this?
I've had dinner and my bath in the warm vanilla bath oil. I'm dressed for him, and my hair is in a bun. I've just finished buttoning up a pair of jeans over my leotard when the doorbell rings. It's a few minutes after eight.
I look through the peephole, and terror grips me. There’s a police officer standing on the other side. I take a slow, deep breath. I knew this would happen eventually. Someone would notice Conall was missing. Questions would be asked. Should I have reported him missing?
I should have reported him missing. I should have gone in there and cried at the police station.
Or maybe that would be bad. It would call too much attention.
For fuck's sake, you can't get away with murder when you're the wife.
You have a link to the person. Of course they're going to question you.
It's always the wife or husband. The boyfriend or girlfriend. Almost always.
The enormity of my crime hits me all at once. This strange way I've been living life like a normal girl—not a killer—is shattered in an instant.
I open the door, my face a mask of calm. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Walsh?”
“Yes?” I don't bother to tell him I kept my name when I married. In some weird way I think it makes me look even more suspicious—like I was never that emotionally attached to him, so of course I must be guilty.
“I'm Officer Jenkins. Do you know where your husband is?”
I mentally count back the amount of time it's been since I killed Conall. I think four or five weeks now. Shit that's a lot.
“He's supposed to be away on business,” I say, hoping like hell they don't know when he was supposed to have left. He's gone away for weeks at a time before, so this isn't that unusual, but it's edging into that territory where it would look strange to anyone.
“Someone reported him missing today.”
I start to cry. I can't stop the tears. Did my blackmailer give them a tip? Why? Why would he do that? I'm doing everything he wants. Even if he's lost interest in me, he told me if I obeyed him... until he was done... he wouldn't report me. He promised he'd let me go.
“Ma’am?” the officer says.
There’s this part of me that knows I should ask for a lawyer, but I can't ask for a lawyer because it will just make me look guilty of something. Why would I need a lawyer in this situation if I haven't done anything wrong?
“H-he and I had a fight before he left. W-we talked about splitting up,” I lie.
“I wasn't sure if he was coming back. He talked like he might find an apartment or something.
I've been mad at him, and things have been so crazy at the company with the dance season starting. I-is... do you think he's okay?”
This better be an Oscar-winning performance, or my life is over. Or maybe the stereotype of the weak, fragile ballerina will save me. Maybe I'm not even on their radar.
“We don't know, ma’am. Is there a good number I can reach you at? We'll let you know when we learn more.”
I give him the number, and he leaves. I watch the police car pull away, then I shut the door and slide to the floor, the tears continuing to fall.
It's nine fifteen when I get to the opera house. I'm still crying, still shaken over the visit from the police.
“Did you do this?” I shout into the seemingly empty theater.
“Did I do what?” the voice fills the space. He sounds irritated at having an accusation aimed at him—as if he's an innocent. Even so, his voice is comforting at the same time it's upsetting—especially in light of the police showing up at my door.
“Did you tip them off? Did you report Conall missing?”
“No. Tell me what happened,” he demands.
His voice is so sharp and urgent that it actually stops my crying. I go up onto the stage, wipe the tears off my face, and set my ballet bag down. I change out of my street shoes and into my soft canvas ballet shoes and finish getting ready while I tell him everything that happened.
I finish with, “They're going to find out. I'm going to go to prison.”
“No. You will not.” He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him.
“I didn't report him missing. It looks suspicious.”
“You covered well,” he says. “Don't worry. I'll handle it.”
“What do you mean, you'll handle it?” How can he handle it?
“I asked you if you knew how much power I had. Conall had good money. I have god money. I will handle it. They will be moved off your trail. Trust me. You do not have to worry about this. The only person with the power to put you in prison is me. And I refuse to relinquish that power to whatever jackass reported your husband missing.”
By this time, I'm standing at the barre, going through my warm-ups, trying to calm my anxiety and the trembling in my limbs that doesn't want to go away.
“Did you cancel your waxing appointment? That was today, right?” he asks, changing the subject as if this issue with the police truly is nothing.
“No, I didn't cancel. But I didn't go. I was distracted and forgot.”
“Yes, you've been distracted all week. What was going on at your performances? I counted thirty-two mistakes spread across four shows. What am I going to do with you?”
I swallow hard. “P-punish me?”
“Yes.”
I take a long, slow breath. My body immediately wakes up at this possibility.
Should I be scared? Should I be aroused?
I don't know what to feel, but he's going to touch me.
Beyond the pas de deux. Something profoundly personal is about to happen here.
And I don't have the luxury of pretending he's some secret lover and not my blackmailer, not after the words that just passed between us. And yet, still I want him.
But first he wants to see the new solo I've been working on with Mr. V. It's another one of Odette's solos from Swan Lake. He gives me some corrections, sounding irritated, losing patience with me, and I'm crying the next time I run through the solo.
He turns off the music mid-stream. “Enough,” he growls. “What in the fuck is wrong with you?”
He doesn't shout at me, but this level of displeasure from him aimed in my direction makes me flinch.
“Do you or do you not want to be a principal dancer?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.”
“Tell me what's going on with you. You're dancing like someone else. You're dancing like someone who is never getting out of the corps. Why?”
I shield my eyes against the spotlight on me and stare out into the vast darkness. I shake my head.
“Tell me!” he demands. “Why are you so distracted?”
I shake my head again.
“Are you still afraid of the police? I've told you I'll handle it.”
“No, Sir.” I am, but that's not why I'm tripping over my feet like some gangly teen. Finally I tell him. The words just spill out of me. “You didn't touch me last week.”
“Of course I touched you. We danced.” There’s a silence, and even though I can't see him, I imagine I can. And in my mind's eye, I see the light bulb go on over his head.
“Oh,” he says. It's the most smug, self-satisfied Oh I've ever heard spoken aloud. A moment later he says, “Put on the blindfold.”
My body responds to this immediately. The words put on the blindfold create a pulsing throb between my legs, and I'm sure this will be my new normal. It's a trigger, a prompt. Those four words slip inside me, make me wet like some kind of arousal drug.