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 obeyed him... until he was done... he wouldn't report me. He promised he'd let me go.
“Ma’am?” the officer says.
There’s this part of me that knows I should ask for a lawyer, but I can't ask for a lawyer because it will just make me look guilty of something. Why would I need a lawyer in this situation if I haven't done anything wrong?
“H-he and I had a fight before he left. W-we talked about splitting up,” I lie. “I wasn't sure if he was coming back. He talked like he might find an apartment or something. I've been mad at him, and things have been so crazy at the company with the dance season starting. I-is... do you think he's okay?”
This better be an Oscar-winning performance, or my life is over. Or maybe the stereotype of the weak, fragile ballerina will save me. Maybe I'm not even on their radar.
“We don't know, ma’am. Is there a good number I can reach you at? We'll let you know when we learn more.”
I give him the number, and he leaves. I watch the police car pull away, then I shut the door and slide to the floor, the tears continuing to fall.
It's nine fifteen when I get to the opera house. I'm still crying, still shaken over the visit from the police.
“Did you do this?” I shout into the seemingly empty theater.
“Did I do what?” the voice fills the space. He sounds irritated at having an accusation aimed at him—as if he's an innocent. Even so, his voice is comforting at the same time it's upsetting—especially in light of the police showing up at my door.
“Did you tip them off? Did you report Conall missing?”
“No. Tell me what happened,” he demands.
His voice is so sharp and urgent that it actually stops my crying. I go up onto the stage, wipe the tears off my face, and set my ballet bag down. I change out of my street shoes and into my soft canvas ballet shoes and finish getting ready while I tell him everything that happened.
I finish with, “They're going to find out. I'm going to go to prison.”
“No. You will not.” He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him.
