“Well, thanks for . . . whatever that was,” I say, half smiling, half blushing.
I touch the handle of the door, planning to climb out.
“Wait,” Cole says, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me back inside instead. He kisses me, deep and warm, with just a hint of a bite as his teeth catch my lower lip, before releasing me.
The kiss makes my head spin. His scent clings to my clothes: steel shavings, machine oil, cold Riesling, expensive cologne. And Cole himself. The man and the monster. Layered together like sediment, like cake.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, breathlessly.
“I’ll definitely see you,” Cole says, a hint of a smile on his lips.
Knowing that he watches me on that studio camera gives me a perverse thrill. I wonder what he’ll do if I slowly strip off my clothes while I’m working. If I paint completely naked. Will he come join me?
I’m floating up the sagging steps to the row house.
It’s so early that I don’t hear a single person creaking around on the upper floors. No scent of burning coffee just yet.
That’s fine—I’m too tired to chat. I can barely haul myself up the next two flights of steps to my attic room. I might need to sleep more than a couple of hours. My body is so obliterated that the thought of my mattress and pillow has become intensely erotic.
I grasp the ancient brass handle and give it a twist. It slips through my hand, stiff and unyielding.
“What the fuck,” I mutter, turning it again.
The door’s locked. From the inside.
In my sleep-befuddled brain, all I can think is that accidentally I locked it on my way out, or the handle is broken. Everything in this house is so decrepit that the shower, the furnace, the outlets, and the stove are constantly going on the fritz. We’ve long since learned not to bother trying to call our landlord. Either Heinrich fixes what breaks, or we just live with it.
In this case, I might be able to fix it myself.
Poking the edge of my thumbnail into the lock, I jiggle the handle until I hear the tumblers click.
“Yes,” I hiss, pushing the door open with a mournful creak.
I’m hurrying in, anticipating the long fall onto the mattress, until something stops me short.
The bed is already occupied.
Not just occupied—drenched. The sheets, blankets, and mattress are soaked and dripping. Water pools on the bare boards all around.
And there on the pillow . . . Erin. Red hair spread out in a halo, damp and wavy. Skin paler than milk. Flowers framing her face: green willow boughs, scarlet poppies, forget-me-nots as blue as her wide-open eyes.
I’m crossing the space, falling down beside her, feeling the water soak into my skirt as I lift her cold white hand.
I look down into her face, somehow believing that she can still see me, that I can bring her back if I keep calling out her name.
My shouts echo in the tiny space, but have no effect on her. No squeeze from her fingers. Not even a flutter of an eyelash.
She’s dead. Hours gone. Already beginning to stiffen.
I drop her hand, overwhelmed by its rubbery chill. It no longer feels like Erin, or anything attached to her.
“What’s going on?” someone says from the doorway. “Why are you yelling?”
I turn toward Joanna. She stands there in her pajamas, hair still wrapped up in her silk sleeping scarf. I’m grateful it’s her and not one of the others, because she keeps our house running, she always knows what to do.
Except right now.
Joanna gapes at Erin with the same stunned expression as me. She’s petrified in place, ten thousand years passing in an instant.
She doesn’t ask if Erin’s okay. She saw the truth sooner than I did. Or she was more willing to accept it.
Frank comes up behind her, unable to see because Joanna is blocking the doorway.
“What are you—” he starts, craning over her shoulder.
“Stay back,” Joanna barks. “We need to call the cops.”
I wait downstairs with the others, my whole body tense, waiting for the sound of sirens.
Carrie is huddled up with Peter, crying softly.
Frank thought we were playing a prank on him, and he wouldn’t go downstairs until we let him look inside the room. Now he’s sitting over against the window, his skin the color of cement, both hands pressed against his mouth.
Melody keeps pacing the room, until Heinrich snaps at her to stop.
None of us are talking. It might be shock, or it might be the same reason Joanna is staring at me from across the room, somber and silent.
They know this is my fault.