Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,25

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