Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,5

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.

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