As the door finally closes, I slide down to the floor and empty my stomach in the middle of the elevator.
He didn’t kill me. He didn’t put a bullet in my head.
So why do I feel like I just signed my death certificate?
3
Lia
It’s been a week since the day I witnessed three people getting killed, and somehow ended up intact.
A whole damn week of biting my nails, watching my windows, and having an unhealthy obsession with the rear-view mirror whenever I’m driving.
I was supposed to take some downtime before I got back to rehearsing the upcoming ballet, but I’ve been on a rollercoaster ride worse than if we’d had consecutive shows.
On the surface, it might appear to be foolish paranoia. After he let me go, it may seem that I’m only obsessing over it because of the surge of adrenaline I experienced that night.
It’s not paranoia.
Far from it.
I’m not an idiot. I’m well aware that night wasn’t the end of it. If anything, it’s the beginning of something ugly I have no control over.
I debated with myself about telling the police, but I quickly shooed that idea away. I believed him when he said he’d know if I talked. I believed him when he said the consequences will be dire.
After all, I saw him murder a man in cold blood and not bat an eyelash about it. That sort of person is capable of doing worse.
To cement my theories, the following day, I rushed to the reception area after spending a sleepless night tossing and turning in bed. I asked the receptionist if something had happened in the parking garage, but he only stared at me as if I were a crazy old hag. I begged him to go down there with me, and when we arrived, there was nothing. Nada.
I didn’t expect the car or the bodies to stay there, but I at least thought there would be some blood, some bullets, some evidence of what I had witnessed.
However, the place was wiped clean.
The only thing that remained was a hint of the black tire marks, and even those weren’t fully visible.
I considered that my mind might have been playing a sick game on me. That’s what it does when everything gets to be too much. My demons come out to play and my subconscious goes to war with my conscious, torturing me with my own head.
But that couldn’t be possible in this situation.
I tested my pain receptors back then. I know it wasn’t a hallucination.
Point is, someone who can hide triple murders overnight can surely find out if I talked to the police.
And I wasn’t ready to sacrifice myself for justice.
I called Luca, though. Since I suspect the stranger and his men run in some sort of a crime organization, I thought he’d know something and tell me how to protect myself.
But even Luca has been MIA.
While it’s not strange for him to disappear off the face of the earth for months at a time, the fact that he’s not answering my calls or emails has only managed to escalate my paranoia and anxiety levels.
I can count on one hand the number of hours I’ve been able to sleep this past week, even with the aid of pills. My nightmares have been magnifying and spiraling out of control, and I had sleep paralysis and the fear of it left me in tears all day long.
If this goes on, I’ll backpedal sooner than I expected.
Inhaling a deep breath, I walk backstage. While everything else is out of control, there’s one thing that isn’t.
Ballet.
I’m wearing a snap-closure soft pink leotard and a short black skirt as well as my broken-in ivory pointe shoes. I usually wear them at home for weeks on end before I rehearse with them or use them in an official show.
They become more flexible with time and help me with going up on pointe, especially when I have a rigorous rehearsal—like today.
All of the dancers are on stage as Philippe and Stephanie talk about the choreography. Other dancers hate Philippe’s perfectionist nature, but I love it. He respects the art too much to let them slack off. Besides, Giselle was recently done by The Royal Ballet, gaining international recognition, and he will stop at nothing to top it.
That makes two of us.
Playing Giselle has been my dream since I first watched it as a little girl. I found magic and heartbreak in her story. Hope and despair. Love and death. I thought it was the most beautiful thing a ballerina could dance.
I had a chance to play in Giselle in my teens, but only as part of the corps de ballet. I didn’t get to experience that despair and live in the head of a woman so betrayed that she escaped in her mind.
That story hit so close to home and I need to experience it, to feel it in the very marrow of my bones.
I was the prima ballerina in Romeo and Juliet, Swan Lake, and recently, The Nutcracker. But Giselle? Giselle will be the peak of my career. Something I will tell my grandchildren about someday.
“Needless to say”—Philippe fixes all of us with one of his custom glares, his celebration mode long over—“I need complete and utter discipline. No gaining weight. No hangover faces. No breathing the wrong way. Slouch, and you’re out of my performance. I want to see des jolis postures all the time or I will bring dancers who will show it to me. Faite vite, allez-y!”
Everyone scatters to warm up, their professional faces on display. Ryan stands beside me as he stretches his long legs. “Another love affair between you and me. Don’t you think it’s fate?”
I keep my attention ahead as I slowly do a plié. My ankles haven’t been throbbing as badly as that night, but I still feel that cramp lurking in my tendon, waiting to rip it.
“I thought your fate was with Hannah, Ryan.”
“Do I hear jealousy, my dear Lia?”
This time, I stare at him. “That’s the difference between you and me, Ryan. You hear jealousy. I hear, leave me alone.”
I don’t wait for him to reply and walk to Stephanie so I can ask her about a part of the choreography. Her posture is refined and elegant, still having the grace of a queen despite being in her early fifties.
She sends one of the staff away when I approach her and folds her frail arms across her chest. “Tell me.”
“Do you have the finalized choreography for the last part of act one?”
“Why are you asking?” Her voice is deep due to the number of cigarettes she smokes on a daily basis.
“I was watching the performances of—”
She cuts me off with a finger. “Didn’t I say not to watch other performances? Are you a copycat, Lia?”
“No. I watch them so I can get inspired before I put my own spin on it.”
“Why? Are you stuck somewhere?”
“A little.”
“Which part?”
“At the end of act one, right before Giselle dies, how do I convey the emotions without being melodramatic?”
“First of all, you need to stop addressing Giselle in third person. She’s you now. If you don’t live inside her, she won’t live inside you.” She places a hand on my chest. “If you don’t allow her to consume your heart and soul, you’ll only go down in history as another ballerina who portrayed Giselle well enough.”
Stephanie’s words hit harder than I expect them to. I’m vaguely aware of my surroundings when the door to the theater opens and the producers waltz inside, accompanied by their associates. They often watch us rehearse, even though Philippe dislikes it with a passion.