Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,1

this? I couldn't live another day with him, and there was no other way out. He closed off all my other options.

A jury wouldn't care about that.

What is wrong with me? I still can't believe I was able to just cut up a body like that... the body of a man I once thought I loved. I think it was the adrenaline. The poison worked fast, and then there was no backing out. I just had to get rid of the body. I couldn't think about it. I just did it.

And now I can't stop staring at the grout—the last evidence of the man who sold me all the lies of a perfect life. He'd come in and rescued me out of poverty. He'd given me everything—or at least that's how it looked to everyone else.

Professional dance pays shit, especially when you aren't a principal. You have to work your way up through the hierarchy, and a lot of dancers never get out of the corps de ballet. And in truth, the dance world is SO competitive that being in the corps of a decent company is still the dream and much more than many can ever hope for. So I don't complain. I'm lucky.

I sometimes get a small solo, and I often have a pas de deux partner in some of the group scenes who lets me pretend for a moment out on that stage that I have some greater role, some greater career and that those screaming cheers from the audience at the end of everything are for me and me alone. I just want someone to really see me.

But I'm background. Nobody notices me. They don't know my name. I'm there to make the principals look more epic because of all the background dancers swirling around them in perfect time. I'm lucky I get to do what I love, even if I'll never be known for it or ever make any real money at it. In a way, Conall was my patron. He funded my ability to keep dancing without worrying how I would also keep eating.

I'm supposed to be in the studio for rehearsal at eight in the morning. We're opening with Swan Lake in the repertoire this season. I'll probably be dancing the same part in the corps that I always dance. I know this part. I've known it for ages, but we still have to rehearse. I have to get my shit together, get a few hours’ sleep, and dance like I didn't just kill a man.

When I step into the studio, everything seems surreal, or hyper-real, or... something. Every sound is harsh and loud. Every color too bright. Every smell an assault. It's like a hangover, except I wasn't drinking last night. Maybe it's a murder hangover. Is that a thing? How would I know? It's not like I do this every week.

The hyper-reality of life around me stands in stark contrast to the unreality of my own sense of self. I feel like I'm glitching in and out of existence, accompanied by a static electric hum. I look up to find a fluorescent light in the studio hallway flickering in and out and roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Cassia.

“We're in studio B today,” Melinda says to me as she passes.

“Thanks,” I murmur, not meeting her eyes.

My partner walks up then. “Oh honey, you look like shit. Do I need to kill that motherfucker?”

I let out a too-loud hysterical laugh. In the first place, Henry is far more Fashion Week Aficionado than Aspiring Killer. He knows Conall hurts me. Or... hurt me. He's been trying to get me to leave him for more months than I can count. I didn't tell him about the death threats. I didn't tell the police about them, either, because it wouldn't matter. Conall Walsh is untouchable in this city. He'd hire someone to end me and make it look like an accident.

Or maybe worse... he would have ripped away my financial safety net, and I might have had to quit dancing. A lot of the company people group up for living expenses, but I'm not factored into their plans. I'm married to a man with money. In their minds, I don't need them. And nobody has any room right now in their apartments anyway.

“He went out of town. I just didn't get much sleep last night,” I say.

It's not a complete lie. Conall was supposed to go out of town. That's why I chose