by A. J. Finn
“Very stupid.”
“Who was?”
“I was.”
“Very fucking stupid.”
“Yes.”
He nods. Rain slaps the windows.
“So I made the Gmail account. On your own computer. You told Lizzie that your family was always like, ‘guess who’ when you talked, and that was just too good to pass up. Guess who, Anna?” He giggles. “Then I sent the picture to your email. I wish I’d seen your face.” He giggles again.
The room is airless. My breath is short.
“And I just had to put my mom’s name on the account. I bet that got you excited.” He smirks. “But you told Lizzie other stuff, too.” He leans forward again, the letter opener pointed at my chest. “You had an affair, you slut. And you killed your family.”
I can’t speak. I’ve got nothing left.
“And then you just got so freaked out about Katie. It was insane. You were insane. I mean, I kind of get it. I did it right in front of my dad, and he freaked out, too. Although I think he was relieved to have her gone, to be honest. I was. Like I said, she pissed me off.”
He shuffles up the bed, closer to me. “Move over.” I fold my legs, brace them against his thigh. “I should have checked the windows, but it all happened too fast. And anyway, it was so totally easy to deny it. Easier than lying. Easier than the truth.” He shakes his head. “I feel, like, bad for him. He just wanted to protect me.”
“He tried to protect you from me,” I say. “Even though he knew—”
“No,” he tells me, voice flat. “He tried to protect you from me.”
I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman, Alistair said. Not for Ethan’s sake, but for mine.
“But, you know, what can you do, right? One of the shrinks told my parents I was just bad.” He shrugs again. “Fine. Fucking fine.”
The anger, the profanity—he’s escalating. Blood surges to my temples. Focus. Remember. Think.
“You know, I kind of feel bad for the cops, too. That one guy was trying so hard to put up with you. What a saint.” Another sniffle. “The other one seemed like a bitch.”
I’m barely listening. “Tell me about your mother,” I murmur.
He looks at me. “What?”
“Your mother,” I say, nodding. “Tell me about her.”
A pause. An ache of thunder outside.
“Like . . . what?” he asks, wary.
I clear my throat. “You said that her boyfriends mistreated you.”
Now he glares. “I said they beat the shit out of me.”
“Yes. I bet that happened a lot.”
“Yeah.” Still glaring. “Why?”
“You said you thought you were ‘just bad.’”
“I said that’s what the other shrink said.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you’re just bad.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t?”
“No.” I try to steady my breath. “I don’t believe people are made that way.” I sit up straighter against the pillows, smooth the sheets across my thighs. “You weren’t made that way.”
“No?” He holds the blade loosely in his hand.
“Things happened to you when you were a child. There were . . . things you saw. Things beyond your control.” My voice is gaining strength. “Things you survived.”
He twitches.
“She wasn’t a good mother to you. You’re right.” He swallows; I swallow. “And I think that by the time your parents adopted you, you were very badly damaged. I think . . .” Do I risk it? “I think they care about you very much. Even if they haven’t been perfect,” I add.
He looks me in the eye. A tiny ripple distorts his face.
“They’re afraid of me,” he says.
I nod. “You said it yourself,” I remind him. “You said that Alistair was trying to protect me by keeping you—by keeping us apart.”
He doesn’t move.
“But I think he was afraid for you, too. I think he wanted to protect you, too.” I extend my arm. “I think that when they took you home, they saved you.”
He’s watching me.
“They love you,” I say. “You deserve love. And if we speak to them, I know—I’m sure—they’ll do everything they can to keep protecting you. Both of them. I know they want to . . . connect with you.”
My hand approaches his shoulder, hovers there.
“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 n
othing 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 flashlight.
From the doorway I see the stairs burst into view, the walls bleached white. Thunder rumbles nearby.
Once more he rotates, the ray of light sweeping the landing like a lighthouse beam. First the closet door. He strides over to it, throws it open. Points the phone inside.
Next, the study. He walks in, scans the room with his phone. I watch his back, brace myself for a flight downstairs. Down, down, down.
But he’ll catch you.
I have no other way out.
You do.
Where?
Up, up, up.
I shake my head as he retreats from the study. The library is next, and after that, the bathroom. I’ve got to move before—
My hip brushes against the doorknob. It twists with a tiny whine.
He rounds sharply, the light glancing past the library door, and aims it directly into my eyes.
I’m blind. Time stops.
“There you are,” he breathes.
Then I lunge.
Through the doorway, slamming into him, burying my shoulder in his gut. He wheezes as I push. I can’t see, but I drive him to one side, toward the staircase—
—and suddenly he’s gone. I hear him collapse down the stairs, an avalanche, the light crazed across the ceiling.
Up, up, up, Olivia whispers.
I turn, my vision still starry. I knock one foot against the base of the staircase, stumble, half crawl another step. Push myself upright. Run.
On the landing I spin, eyes adjusting to the dark. My bedroom looms ahead of me; across from it, the guest room.
Up, up, up.
But upstairs is just the spare room. And your room.
Up.
The roof?
Up.
But how? How could I?
Slugger, says Ed, you don’t have a choice.
Two floors below, Ethan charges up the steps. I turn and scramble upstairs, the rattan burning my soles, the banister squeaking against my palm.
I burst onto the next landing, streak to the corner below the trapdoor. Flap my hand above my head, find the chain. Wrap my fingers around it and yank.
97
Water sprays my face as the door yawns open. The ladder barrels toward me with a scream of metal. At the bottom of the stairs, Ethan shouts, but the wind whips his words away.
I screw my eyes shut against the rain and climb. One, two, three, four, the rungs cold and slick, the ladder squealing beneath my weight. On the seventh step I feel my head breach the rooftop, and the sound . . .
The sound nearly knocks me back. The storm is roaring like an animal. Wind claws the air, shreds it. Rain, sharp as teeth, bites into my skin. Water licks my face, washes my hair back—
His hand clutches my ankle.
I shake it loose, frenzied, and haul myself up and out, rolling to one side, between the trapdoor and the skylight. I prop a hand against the curved glass of the dome and struggle to my feet, open my eyes.
The world tips around me. In the thick of the storm I hear myself moan.
Even in the dark I can see that the roof is a wilderness. Plants boil over in their pots and beds; the walls are veined with vines. Ivy swarms the ventilation unit. Ahead of me stands the hulk of the trellis, twelve long feet of it, canted to one side beneath the weight of its leaves.
And across it all rain isn’t falling but billowing, in sails, vast sheets of water. It drops like a weight onto the rooftop, fizzes on the stonework. Already my robe clings to my skin.
I revolve slowly, weak at the knees. On three sides, a four-story drop; to the east, the wall of St. Dymphna’s rears up like a mountain.
Sky above me. Space around me. My fingers curl. My legs buckle. My breathing is ragged. The noise rages.
I see the dark drop beyond—the trapdoor. And emerging from it, one arm bent against the rain, Ethan.
Now he rises onto the roof, black as a shadow, the letter opener a silver spike in one hand.
I falter, stumble backward. My foot brakes against the dome of the skylight; I feel it give slightly—Flimsy, David warned me. Branch falls on that, it’s gonna take out the whole window.
The shadow nears me. I scream, but the wind rips it from my mouth, whirls it away like a dead leaf.
For an instant Ethan rocks back in surprise. Then he laughs.
“No one can hear you,” he calls above the howl. “We’re in a . . .” Even as he says it, the rain pounds harder.
I can’t back up any farther without treading on the skylight. I step sideways, just an inch, and my foot grazes wet metal. I glance down. The watering can that David upset that day on the roof.
Ethan approaches, soaked with rain, bright eyes in a dark face, panting.
I stoop, seize the watering can, swing at him—but I’m woozy, off balance, and the can slips from my grasp, sails away.
He ducks.
And I run.
Into the dark, into the wild, afraid of the sky above but terrified of the boy behind. My memory maps the rooftop: the row of boxwoods to the left, the flower beds just beyond. Empty planters on the right, sacks of soil slouched among them like drunks. The tunnel of the trellis directly ahead.
Thunder riots. Lightning blanches the clouds, drenches the rooftop in white light. Veils of rain shift and shudder. I charge through them. At any moment the sky could cave in and crush me to rubble, yet still my heart is pumping, blood heating my veins, as I hurtle toward the trellis.
A curtain of water drapes the entrance. I burst through it into the tunnel, dark as a covered bridge, dank as a rain forest. It’s quieter in here, beneath the canopy of twigs and tarp, as though sound has been walled off; I can hear myself gasping. To one side sits the shallow little bench. Through adversity to the stars.
They’re at the far end of the tunnel, where I hoped they’d be. I bolt to them. Grasp them with both hands. Turn around.
A silhouette looms behind the waterfall. It’s how I first met him, I remember, his shadow piling up against the frosted glass of my door.
And then he steps through it.
“This is perfect.” He mops water from his face, moves toward me. His coat is sodden; his scarf sags around his neck. The letter opener juts from his hand. “I was going to break your neck, but this is better.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You were so fucked up that you jumped from the roof.”
I shake my head.
A smile now. “You don’t think so? What have you got there?”
And then he sees what I’ve got here.
The gardening shears wobble in my hands—they’re heavy, and I’m shaking—but I lift them to his chest as I advance.
He isn’t smiling anymore. “Put that down,” he says.
I shake my head again, step closer. He hesitates.
“Put it down,” he repeats.
I take another step, snap the shears together.
His eyes flicker to the blade in his hand.
And he recedes into the wall of rain.
I wait a moment, my breath heaving in my chest. He’s melted away.
Slowly, slowly, I creep toward the arch of the entrance. There I stop, the spray misting on my face, and I poke the tip of the shears through the waterfall, like a divining rod.
Now.
I thrust the shears ahead of me and leap through the water. If he’s waiting for me, he’ll be—
I freeze, my hair streaming, my clothes soaked. He isn’t there.
I scan the rooftop.
No sign of him by the boxwoods.
Near the ventilation unit.
In the flower beds.
Lightning overhead, and the roof blazes white. It’s desolate, I see—just a wasteland of unruly plants and frigid rain.
But if he isn’t there, then—
He crashes into me from behind, so fast and so hard that the scream is knocked out of me. I drop the shears and fall with him, my knees collapsing, my temple slamming against the wet roof; I hear the crack. Blood floods my mouth.
We roll across the asphalt, once, twice, until our bodies ram into the edge of the skylight. I feel it shudder.
“Bitch,” he mutters, his breath hot in my ear, and now he’s righted himself, his foot pressing on my neck. I gurgle.
“Don’t fuck with me.” He’s rasping. “You’re going to walk off this roof. And if you don’t, I’ll throw you off. So.”
I watch raindrops seethe on the asphalt beside me.
“Which side would you choose? Park or street?”
I shut my eyes.
“Your mother . . .” I whisper.
“What?”
“Your mother.”
The pressure on my neck eases, just slightly. “My mother?”
I nod.
“What about her?”
“She told me—”
Now he presses harder, nearly throttling me. “Told you what?”
My eyes pop. My mouth flaps open. I gag.
Again he lets up on my neck. “Told you what?”
I breathe deep. “She told me,” I say, “who your father is.”
He doesn’t move. Rain bathes my face. The tang of blood sharpens on my tongue.
“That’s a lie.”