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