Acts of Violet(75)
“Just to be clear, Off the Beaten Path—that’s the ‘spooky series’ being filmed here—doesn’t need you to sign a release to use your likeness. There are signs posted outside and all over the building stating that the theater is being used as a filming location the next few days and anybody who sets foot on the property automatically gives consent if they end up on camera. In all fairness, I also don’t need your permission to discuss the incident on my podcast.”
My jaw goes so stiff, it’s a wonder I don’t crack a tooth. I throw a disgusted glare over my shoulder but don’t leave the room.
“Sasha, listen. We’re in a position to help each other here. I’ll talk to the producers and get you edited out of the show. In exchange, I’d like an interview with you for Strange Exits.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” It takes an astronomical amount of willpower not to add, Go fuck yourself.
“You have two choices. Be presented on TV however the producers decide, or present yourself, in your own words, on the podcast.”
This time I can’t hold back. “Go fuck yourself.” But I also can’t leave. I stomp over to him, waving a finger in his face. “Those are shitty choices and you know it.”
“Agreed.” He flashes his palms and ducks his head in concession. “Any chance I can get you to sit for a minute?”
Now he’s being all nice again. What a jerk-off. The worst thing about it? I have to hear him out in case he can help me avoid some deeply awkward publicity. I return to my spot on the plaid sofa.
“Just keep an open mind,” he insists.
That’s my cue to start cringing. Whenever someone tells me to keep an open mind, they may as well be promising to inundate me with bullshit they expect me to believe as fact.
“There’s someone you need to meet,” he says. “She might be able to offer you some guidance, and she’s been dying to talk to you.”
“And I’ve been dying to be left alone. Yet you still keep badgering me to talk and talk and talk.”
“This part doesn’t have to be for Strange Exits. The whole thing can be off the record. I don’t even need to be there. I just want to set up a meeting with you two.”
“A meeting with a certain person named Antoinette?”
“How’d you know?”
“I listen to your stupid podcast, okay?” A flush creeps up from my collarbone.
“Really? You listen to Strange Exits?” The boyish pride in his voice says he’s choosing to ignore my derisive modifier.
“This isn’t the fangirl moment you’ve been waiting for.”
“No, of course not.” He shakes the smug grin off his face. “So you must’ve heard the last episode.”
And all the others. How could I not? “Yeah, I heard that one and somehow my eyeballs didn’t become detached despite my violent eye-rolling.” I can’t resist a quick demonstration. “I’ve tried to be pretty tolerant about the crazy theories surrounding Violet’s disappearance—aliens, the Illuminati, dimensional rifts. People can believe what they want to believe. What bugs me is when they try to foist their beliefs on others without any solid evidence. Like your girl Antoinette.”
There’s a sudden flutter in my peripheral vision. I turn as a sheet of paper becomes unglued from the wall, drifts down, and lands in my lap.
It’s a playbill for a ballet performed at the Witkin Theater some years back. Swan Lake. The poster’s two central figures are kneeling, clad in tutus made of feathers. Two swans framed by a swan-shaped silhouette. Three swans.
The playbill quivers in my unsteady hands. A shiver tickles the back of my neck.
The swans mean something.
This was supposed to be over once Violet was a no-show at the vigil.
It’s not over until you follow the arrows.
Why is my brain trying to lure me into a labyrinth of synchronicity? This ballet has nothing to do with me or my sister. Neither do swans. So why do I experience the same magnetic pull to this poster and the swan figures in Renatta’s office? It’s like there’s a clue I’m meant to pick up on, a code I’m expected to decipher.
My teeth begin to chatter.
“What’s wrong, Sasha?”
Typically, my automatic response is “nothing,” but my life is veering down atypical paths and unvarnished honesty feels more appropriate here. “I’m afraid…” The words a breathy whisper but their truth provide unexpected armor. “This show, your podcast, the unending Violet mania, my nosy daughter, everybody digging and digging. For any trace of her or who she was.”
“Why is that scary for you?” Cameron asks.
“You sound like my therapist.” Which is who I should be saying all this to. Unfortunately, you can’t always control when your emotional volcano will erupt. I clasp my elbows, as if buckling myself into an invisible straitjacket. “I’m so tired of pretending to keep it together. I’m not even that good at it. My husband knows something’s wrong but acts like he’s afraid to ask. My daughter isn’t afraid to ask me anything but gets annoyed at how little I tell her.”
“About Violet?”
“About Violet, about how fucked-up I am, about how fucked-up things were with me and Violet.” A hard swallow and I raise my head to look at Cameron head-on. If this is when the postoutburst wave of cathartic euphoria is supposed to hit, it’s taking its sweet time. “I don’t know what happened to my sister, and I don’t know how to live with not knowing. All I do know is, weirder and weirder shit is happening, and therapy isn’t helping, and I don’t think some podcast host or random curly-haired lunatic is gonna help, either.”