“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 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.
