А Финн: The Woman in the Window

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.