Acts of Violet(53)
CAMERON FRANK: Don’t you pretty much need a new identity to successfully disappear and start a new life?
JOHN ARNO: That is illegal, and I don’t condone or assist people in breaking the law. Sure, aliases are helpful, but there are ways around that. There are gray areas you can play with when muddying your trail, like going through all the accounts that have your personal details and “accidentally” updating your contact info with incorrect information, maybe misspelling your name or changing around the numbers on your address. That’s one part of a much more involved process.
CAMERON FRANK: Going back to what you said about not helping unsavory types … Couldn’t you argue Violet fell into that category because she was evading lawsuits and investigations into her finances?
JOHN ARNO: Who said I ever helped her?
Besides, if that was her motivation, her best bet would’ve been to fake her own death definitively, not vanish in such an open-ended way that would keep people looking for her. Stage a kayaking accident, something along those lines. You do that in a place like the Philippines and pay the right people, you can even get a body and a death certificate, which makes it easier to get a life insurance payout.
If Ms. Volk was looking to avoid legal repercussions, this would be a better way to disappear, after making sure all her money was stashed away in offshore accounts. Instead, for all the rumors of her undeclared income and cash hoarding, she left enough in her estate to pay off outstanding debts and settle lawsuits, with plenty left over to give to charitable organizations, who were also the beneficiaries of her life insurance settlement. If the money had gone to friends or loved ones, I might be suspicious she was in on a fraud scheme.
No matter which way I look at this case, I have trouble classifying it as a pseudocide, even though Volk was eventually declared dead. The only conclusion I can reach is she wanted to start a new life.
CAMERON FRANK: Also, statistically, pseudocide is committed by men far more often than women, right?
JOHN ARNO: That’s a tricky stat, because the only data you can use is based on people who’ve been caught. There may also be cases that go unreported. Using the data available to us, yes, men are more likely to fake their own death. It’s possible women don’t do it as much because they’re more rooted to their families and communities and feel a stronger sense of responsibility, particularly if they’re mothers. It’s also possible women just don’t get caught as often. Could be they’re better at disappearing.
CAMERON FRANK: And if Violet chose to willingly disappear, do you think she’d be good at it?
JOHN ARNO: No. [dry laugh] She would be the goddamn best.
Sasha
February 21, 2018
I can’t get comfortable. My hips and shoulders try to dig into the mattress, but there’s zero cushioning and—
I wake up but keep my eyes closed.
Please please please let me be on my kitchen floor or my bathroom floor or the floor of any room of my house.
I open my eyes.
Shit.
As I adjust to the darkness, I can’t bring myself to my feet, not yet.
This isn’t any room of my house. In fact, my entire house could fit into this room. A chandelier the size of a school bus is suspended from the multistoried ceiling of this room, and the red emergency EXIT signs in the back look like they’re a mile away.
Oh Jesus, so now I’m inside the Witkin Theater? I get to my feet.
Just like last time, I’m in nothing but pajamas, but at least this time I’m not outside in the cold. So that makes it … better?
On either side of me are roped-off curtains. Oh, cool, center stage. A few more feet and I would’ve fallen into the orchestra pit. Above me, a lighting rig. Farther out, I can make out balconies with elaborate gold leaf trim.
No, this is worse than when I woke up outside. Definitely, definitely worse. I can think of three reasons why off the top of my head.
One: The trespassing factor.
Two: The embarrassment factor if someone finds me.
Three: Sleepwalking once beyond the confines of my home is a fluke. Twice means it’s becoming a pattern.
“That’s so inconvenience stores,” Violet would say, referencing a Far Side cartoon we both loved. In it, a retailer kept his merchandise stocked on shelves along a high ceiling, way out of reach. When Quinn was three, we visited Violet in Las Vegas and saw her show at the Kintana. Afterward, we went backstage, and it made me smile to see the cartoon taped to her dressing room mirror.
Pounding footsteps in the distance snap me back to the Witkin.
“Is somebody in here?” A flashlight beam zigzags down the center aisle.
Crap. I need to get out of here.
I turn around and make my way upstage as quickly and quietly as possible. In my haste, my body collides with a heavy curtain. I claw at it, trying to find an opening. It’s like swimming through fabric and I get more and more tangled up in it until I break free only to run headfirst into another curtain and lose my balance. I fall onto the stage, landing with a thud.
From the direction of the orchestra pit, a male voice shouts, “Come out before I call the police!”
Oh hell no. I crawl around in search of an exit and my fingers brush against some kind of braiding. It’s the hem of the curtain. Great, I’ll just follow this into one of the stage wings—only I’m hyperventilating because tight, enclosed spaces are not my favorite, and I’m cocooned in heavy curtain right now and it brings back terrible memories of being trapped in a mining tunnel as a kid, memories I don’t care to revisit now or ever. I clutch the braided hem and do my damnedest to slow my breathing. It’s not going well.