“What happened to you when you were young wasn’t your fault,” I whisper. “And—”
“Enough of this bullshit.” He jerks away before I can touch him. I reel my arm back in.
I’ve lost him. I feel the blood drain from my brain. My mouth goes dry.
He leans toward me, looks into my eyes, his own bright and earnest. “What do I smell like?”
I shake my head.
“Come on. Take a whiff. What do I smell like?”
I breathe in. I think of that first time, inhaling the scent of the candle. Lavender.
“Rain,” I answer.
“And?”
I can’t bear to say it. “Cologne.”
“Romance. By Ralph Lauren,” he adds. “I wanted this to be nice for you.”
I shake my head again.
“Oh, yes. What I can’t decide,” he continues, thoughtful, “is whether it’s a fall down the stairs or an overdose. You’ve been so sad lately, and all. And so many pills on the coffee table. But you’re also a fucking wreck, so you could, you know, miss a step.”
I don’t believe this is happening. I look at the cat. He’s on his side again, asleep.
“I’m going to miss you. No one else will. No one will notice for days, and no one will care afterward.”
I coil my legs beneath the sheets.
“Maybe your shrink, but I bet he’s had enough of you. You told Lizzie he puts up with your agoraphobia and your guilt. Jesus Christ. Another fucking saint.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch.”
With all my strength, I kick.
96
I connect with his stomach. He doubles over and I reload my legs, kick him again, in the face. My heel cracks against his nose. He spills to the floor.
I rip the sheets back and spring from the bed, run through the doorway into the black hall beyond.
Above me, rain drills into the skylight. I stumble on the runner, sink to my knees. Seize the banister with one flailing hand.
Suddenly the stairwell glows white as lightning flares overhead. And in that instant I glance through the spindles of the banister, see every step illuminated, spiraling down, down, down, all the way to the bottom.
Down, down, down.
I blink. The stairwell is plunged into darkness again. Nothing to see, nothing to sense, except the percussion of the rain.
I haul myself to my feet, fly down the steps. Thunder rolls outside. And then:
“You bitch.” I hear him stumble onto the landing, his voice wet. “You bitch.” The banister creaks as he barges into it.
I need to get to the kitchen. To the box cutter, still unsheathed atop the kitchen table. To the slivers of glass glittering in the recycling bin. To the intercom.
To the doors.
But can you go outside? asks Ed, just a whisper.
I’ve got to. Leave me alone.
He’ll overtake you in the kitchen. You won’t make it outside. And even if you did . . .
I hit the next floor and whirl like a compass, orienting myself. Four doors surround me. The study. The library. The closet. The half bath.
Choose one.
Wait—
Choose one.
The bathroom. Heavenly Rapture. I grasp the knob, tear the door open, step inside. I lurk within the doorway, my breath short and shallow—
—and he’s coming now, rushing down the stairs. I don’t breathe.
He reaches the landing. Stops, four feet away from me. I feel the air stir.
For a moment I hear nothing except the drumbeat of rain. Sweat creeps down my back.
“Anna.” Low, cold. I cringe.
Gripping the frame with one hand, hard enough to prize it loose, I peek into the dark of the landing.
He’s faint, just a shade among shades, but I can make out the span of his shoulders, the floating white of his hands. His back is to me. I can’t tell which hand holds the letter opener.
Slowly, he rotates; I see him in profile, facing the library door. He gazes straight ahead, motionless.
Then he turns again, but quicker this time, and before I can draw back into the bathroom he’s looking at me.
I don’t move. I can’t.
“Anna,” he says quietly.
My lips part. My heart hammers.
We stare at each other. I’m about to scream.
He pivots away.
He hasn’t seen me. He isn’t able to look deep in the dark. But I’m used to it, the low light, the no-light. I can see what he—
Now he moves to the top of the stairs. The blade flickers in one hand; the other dips into his pocket.
“Anna,” he calls. He pulls his hand from his pocket, lifts it in front of him.
And light blasts from his palm. It’s his phone. It’s the