melt into the sofa, loll my head on my shoulder. Shut my eyes.
What happened to Lizzie? Did I say something wrong? I feel myself frown.
The cranberry bog stretches before me, shimmery, shifting. Olivia’s hand takes my own.
The ice bucket smashes on the floor.
I’ll watch the rest of the movie.
I open my eyes, unearth the remote from beneath me. The speakers exhale organ music, and there’s Bacall, playing peekaboo over her shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” she vows. “Hold your breath, cross your fingers.” The surgery scene—Bogie doped up, specters revolving before him, an unholy carousel. “It’s in your bloodstream now.” The organ drones. “Let me in.” Agnes Moorehead, rapping at the camera lens. “Let me in.” A flame wavers—“Light?” suggests the cabbie.
Light. I turn my head, look into the Russell house. Jane is still in her living room, on her feet now, shouting silently.
I swivel in my seat. Strings, a fleet of them, the organ shrilling beneath. I can’t see who she’s shouting at, or at whom she’s shouting—the wall of the house blocks my view of the rest of the room.
“Hold your breath, cross your fingers.”
She’s really bellowing, her face gone scarlet. I spy my Nikon on the kitchen counter.
“It’s in your bloodstream now.”
I rise from the sofa, cross to the kitchen, paw the camera with one hand. Move to the window.
“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.”
I lean into the glass, lift the camera to my eye. A blur of black, and then Jane jumps into view, soft around the edges; a twist of the lens and now she’s clear, crisp—I can even see her locket winking. Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth wide. She jabs the air with one finger—“Light?”—jabs again. A lock of hair has swung from her head, flopping against her cheek.
Just as I zoom in further, she storms to the left, out of sight.
“Hold your breath.” I turn to the television. Bacall again, almost purring. “Cross your fingers,” I say along with her. I face the window again, Nikon at my eye.
Once more Jane enters the frame—but walking slowly, strangely. Staggering. A dark patch of crimson has stained the top of her blouse; even as I watch, it spreads to her stomach. Her hands scrabble at her chest. Something slender and silver has lodged there, like a hilt.
It is a hilt.
Now the blood surges up to her throat, washes it with red. Her mouth has gone slack; her brow is creased, as though she’s confused. She grips the hilt with one hand, limply. With the other she reaches out, her finger aimed toward the window.
She’s pointing straight at me.
I drop the camera, feel it rappel down my leg, the strap snagging in my fingers.
Jane’s arm folds against the window. Her eyes are wide, pleading. She mouths something I can’t hear, can’t read. And then, as time slows to a near halt, she presses her hand to the window and keels to one side, wiping a bold smear of blood across the glass.
I’m stricken where I stand.
I can’t move.
The room is still. The world is still.
And then, as time lurches forward, I move.
I spin, shake the camera strap loose, lunge across the room, my hip butting into the kitchen table. I stumble, reach the counter, wrench the landline from its dock. Press the power button.
Nothing. Dead.
Somewhere I remember David telling me as much. It isn’t even plugged—
David.
I drop the phone and race to the basement door, yell his name, yell it, yell it. Seize the doorknob, pull hard.
Nothing.
Run to the stairs. Up, up—crashing against the wall—once—twice—round the landing, trip on the final step, half crawl to the study.
Check the desk. No phone. I swear I left it here.
Skype.
My hands jumping, I reach for the mouse, streak it over the desk. Double-click on Skype, double-click again, hear the sweep of the welcome tone, bash 911 into the dial pad.
A red triangle flashes on the screen. no emergency calls. skype is not a telephone replacement service.
“Fuck you, Skype,” I shout.
Flee the study, rush the steps, whip around the landing, crash through the bedroom door.
Near bedside table: wineglass, picture frame. Far bedside table: two books, reading glasses.
My bed—is it in my bed again? I grab the duvet with both hands, snap it hard.
The phone launches into the air like a missile.
I pounce before it lands, knock it beneath the armchair, reach for it, grip it tight in my hand, swipe it on. Tap in the passcode. It trembles. Wrong code. Tap it in again, my fingers