Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,6
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