less than a day. The hallway was empty. Maybe Kate had overreacted and nothing was really wrong. Maybe the girl had grown tired of her pushy, chinless friend.
Kate ate the dinner, surprisingly good, sitting on one of the stools around the L-shaped granite island in the kitchen. She poured a second glass of champagne, took one sip, and was overcome again with exhaustion. Her head was heavy on her neck, her stomach slightly queasy. She had planned on unpacking and setting up her laptop so that she could send e-mails, and she’d hoped to watch some American television, but instead she rolled her suitcase into the bedroom, dug around in it to find her toiletry kit, plus the boxers and T-shirt she liked to sleep in, then managed to brush her teeth and wash her face before climbing between the cool, crisp sheets. Despite being exhausted, she lay awake for a time, listening to the barely discernible sounds of the apartment: the far-off rumble of traffic, the muffled click of a heating system, something else—a soft hissing—she couldn’t identify. The bed, she thought, before falling asleep, was the most comfortable bed she had ever lain on. She sank into its grip.
Kate woke once. Intermittent blue lights were flashing along a diagonal stretch of the high ceilings. Where are the sirens? Kate thought. Then: Where am I? And, finally, after a confused two seconds, she remembered. Her mouth was dry and she was desperately thirsty. She heard what sounded like a distant train. She rolled to either side, looking for the illuminated numbers of a clock to tell her what time it was, but, except for the police lights streaking through the curtained windows, the room was black.
Kate sat up, then lay back down. She was far too tired to even find the bathroom and get a drink of water. What was the name of that neighbor again? The girl who was missing? Audrey Marshall, Kate remembered. She was good with names. It was her superpower, George had said. He’d dubbed her Never-Forgets-a-Name-Girl. Kate closed her eyes, heard someone whispering to her in a dream, and jolted awake again. The voices disappeared, and the room was dark again. Had she dreamed the police lights? I’ll find out about it tomorrow, she thought, and let herself fall back into a black pool of sleep.
Chapter 3
She did find out about it, but not until late the following day.
She woke early, the room still dark. She knew she should try to sleep in a little later, to adjust herself to Boston time, but she was wide awake and desperate for coffee.
It took a while, but she found the coffeemaker and some coffee and figured out how it all worked. While the coffee brewed, she walked around the enormous apartment again. The thin light of morning was beginning to suffuse the windows. The largest room of the apartment, the central living room, had the view of the Charles River, quiet in the gray dawn, traces of mist above its unruffled surface. There was a footbridge that spanned both the river and the road next to it.
The living room looked ready for a cocktail party. There were scattered chairs, plus two large couches facing one another, and in between them a glass-topped coffee table. Kate hated glass tables. Putting anything on one made her think it would instantly shatter, or at least crack. She always lived in the next moment, the tragic moment. For this reason, she’d always loathed low railings, crossing busy streets, waiters carrying multiple plates. These had always been prickly, annoying phobias, but then, five years earlier, the incident with George had happened and her life had changed forever. She couldn’t leave her house for over a year. No, worse than that. She couldn’t even imagine leaving her house; fear and grief had immobilized her. Her parents and her therapist had slowly pulled her out of that hole, and life had gotten better. It was inconceivable to her that she had made it all the way to the States, to this enormous apartment with its glass table. She didn’t like the glass table, but she could live with it.
There was no television in the living room, and she wondered, with a sense of horror, if the apartment was television free. Then she remembered what Carol Valentine had called “the den,” a dark-wood-paneled room with a soft leather couch. For a brief moment, she couldn’t remember where the den was located, but it was