Her apartment door closed behind her, and Isabel paused, smiling, home again, but no longer a prisoner. She’d been outside. She’d done it. She’d broken the spell. Like some Rapunzel fairy-tale princess. She could think that to herself, silly but true.
“True, Fish,” she said, tapping just the right amount of fish flakes into his bowl. “Good night, swim tight.” It was a good night. She couldn’t remember the last time she was up this late.
Now she had plans, she had a future. She’d go to class even. Tomorrow, or the day after that for sure. Tomorrow afternoon was coffee with Elaine and the group. Last night they’d bonded over Edward Tarrant, and his perverse tactics to keep families silent. What Tarrant didn’t know: Manderley, awesome girl, had listened to every phone call. And kept notes. That disgusting man was about to get a visit he’d not soon forget. Plus, they’d told her they’d compiled what they called a “creep list.” Awesome, and Isabel couldn’t wait to add one certain name to it. Unless, perhaps, it was already there.
And then Jane and Fiola were coming to do the first shooting of her interview. All good. She’d be in silhouette, but it was what she said that mattered, and nothing could stop her from saying it now. Not the vile Trey, not the hideous Tarrant, not her timid and unsupportive mother, not anyone. Vincerò.
She went to the window, pulled back her striped curtains—they were so pretty, everything was pretty—and stepped out onto her balcony. The night, bejeweled with the lights of the square, twinkling stars, flashing neon, the flare of headlights and even the traffic signals, all at once, all green. All green.
The colors below had never been so vibrant. It was as if the world were in color again, as if someone had flipped a switch—Jane?—and given Isabel her life back.
She wrapped her fingers around the spindly iron railing, replaying the evening. She’d seen him, Trey, coming into the Spotted Owl. Before he went away with whoever those guys were. She’d relived it, what happened in May: the revulsion, the dread, the incomprehensively unnerving gaps of memory. Her brain was clear right up to … when? Reality only pounced on her afterward, when she’d awakened, tangled in sheets, naked, sticky, alone.
She’d told Tarrant back then. The whole thing. He’d as much as ordered her to keep quiet. Convinced her mother, too, not to say a word. It was about her reputation, Tarrant had insisted. Her future. Her mother had believed it, had even been grateful! But not her, not anymore. What she’d learned last night? She wasn’t the only one. Talk about a creep.
She’d entered tonight in her “Someday” file. She was keeping track of Trey. Oh, yes. Maybe someday she wouldn’t have to.
She closed her eyes briefly, making a wish, as she leaned forward on the balcony rail, pushing all bad thoughts away. She looked down, over the edge, onto the street fifteen stories below.
WILLOW GALT
Willow had blinked at the darkness, struggled to come out of the drug-induced fog. She was … in that hotel, right, and it was … She had tried to stand, then fell back on the chair, swimming through the uncertainty and searching for bearings. The crosswalk. The man. The sidewalk. The man. Java Jim’s. The man.
Ten-seventeen, the time displayed in white electronic lights on the hotel’s nightstand clock. She’d slept for all that time? Maybe. She’d taken another pill. Or two. “For better or for worse,” she and Tom had made that vow, but she’d let her paranoia and panic erase it. After ten at night? He’d be frantic. It was time for the panic to be over.
Whatever she’d seen—and she’d seen, she had, she could not erase that memory, more like half a memory, but still indelibly drawn—whatever she’d seen, whatever she’d witnessed, she’d have to tell. She’d dialed her cell phone, fearing Tom’s reaction, eager for his reaction, knowing his love for her would outweigh his anger. He’d be angry, yes, but only because he loved her. I am Tom and you are Willow.
No answer. Should she leave a message? “I’m okay,” she’d whispered. “I’m coming home.” Where was Tom? What if that man had already—
Without thinking, without planning, panic taking over again, she’d flown down the fire stairs, out through the lobby, into the urban darkness, neon, and headlights. The hotel’s front door was deserted. The street sign at the corner said Boylston and Clarendon. Cab. She needed a cab.
And one arrived, because it was meant to be and soon she was home and that’s why she stood here, in her own entryway of their own house, safe, she hoped, in The Reserve.
She paused, listening. Tom might be upstairs, asleep.
She checked her phone again. But of course no one had called her—this was her prepaid, the one she’d used to contact Olive, and later to tell her never mind. And probably why Tom hadn’t answered. The number would show up as “unknown.” They were trained never to answer unknown calls.
She tiptoed up the stairs, light still off, hating to awaken Tom, listening through the darkness for his breathing, or the rustle of sheets, or some sound reassuring her she’d done the right thing. Had he heard her message?
Tom would take care of her. They were in this together.
Down the hall, the bedroom light flipped on.
Her heart filled. He must have known it was her. He was there.
“Willow?”
She couldn’t find the voice to answer. She dropped her bag onto the floor, had to get there more quickly, threw herself down the hall and around the corner until she was facing him.
Tom was standing by the side of the bed. Fully dressed.
Pointing a gun at her.
“No!” She screamed it, her throat closing her mind exploding her world ending—and she steeled herself for what was to come, the pain and the answers, that the reality of life wasn’t always what you expected. “No!”
“No, no, Willow, Willow.” Tom was holding her, and the gun was on the floor, and she was in his arms. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I got your message—where were you?—and Olive’s, too. About what happened. But I didn’t know it was you on the stairs. When you didn’t answer, I thought it was—”
The man. She almost said it out loud.
But she was crying then, full out, the day and the night and the fear and telling the secret of what she’d seen.