WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes again, Jeannie had no idea where she was.
She was staring at the ceiling. A ceiling she didn’t recognize at first, until she tried to lift her head and felt everything spinning. It all started to come back to her, piece by piece. The lake house. The inspection.
Livermore.
She sat up on the couch, feeling the rough cloth against her arms. He had taken off her coat and her sweater. As she put her feet to the floor, she felt the cold wood. He had taken her shoes and socks, too. Her face was wet and numb from the snow, and she felt a raw scrape across her chin.
As she slowly got to her feet, holding the arm of the couch for balance, she felt the warmth coming from the fireplace. She looked over and saw the logs burning, then shuffled carefully over to stand in front of it. The heat radiated through her body, making her forget everything else.
Then she heard the noises from the kitchen. Chopping, water boiling on the stove.
He’s still here. She looked down at the iron rack that held the fireplace tools. But the poker was gone.
The door. I have to get out of here.
“You took a bad spill out there.” The voice came from behind her, strangely calm.
She turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He was holding one of the kitchen towels to his face.
“You have to be careful on that ice,” he said. “Come sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.”
She looked back at the front door, measuring the distance, estimating her chances.
“You don’t want to go outside again,” he said. “You’ll freeze to death.”
She hesitated for a moment, then she felt herself moving toward the kitchen, almost against her will. She stopped when she saw the table. It had been set with two plates. Water glasses, silverware. Everything in its perfect place. As if they were two normal people actually about to sit down to dinner.
“Why are you doing this?” she said, her lips trembling.
“Because this is a very special occasion.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and looking around the kitchen. “Please . . .”
She had to fight down the urge to try to run again. She knew she wouldn’t make it more than halfway across the room, even if she surprised him.
And he was right. Even if she got outside, she would freeze to death. There was nowhere to go. Just empty houses in either direction. Her car keys were in her coat, and that was gone.
“I’m making your favorite,” he said. “It’ll be ready in a moment.”
My favorite? How does he know that? How does he know anything about me?
She looked at the butcher-block knife holder on the counter, just a few feet away from him. There were a half dozen knives in the block.
If I can just get to them. That one long knife . . .
“I sharpened your knives,” he said, turning and watching her eyes. He held up the knife he’d been using to cut tomatoes. “Any chef will tell you, dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones.”
“Where are my clothes?” She heard her own voice breaking.
“They were wet,” he said. “We don’t want you to be . . . uncomfortable.”
“I’m cold.” Another shiver ran through her body.
“The food will warm you up.”
He went back to his chopping. She stared at his back, wondering what to do next. She wanted to go back to the fire, but she didn’t know what would happen if she tried to leave the kitchen.
He turned and looked at her, still holding the knife. “Sit down, Jeannie.”
Jeannie swallowed hard and sat down. She massaged her legs, trying to rub some warmth into them.
A minute passed. The only sounds came from the stove or from the settling of the logs in the fireplace. Livermore drained the pasta in the sink, visibly wincing as the steam rose and gathered around his face. As he turned to her, she could see the jagged, red gash on his cheek.
I slashed him with the scissors, she thought, but he’s not saying anything about it.
Somehow that was the most frightening thing of all.
He shook off whatever pain he was feeling, regained his composure, and brought over the pasta in the strainer. As he got close to her again, she could smell the odd, antiseptic odor that came from him, mixed with something else. Fire . . . smoke . . .
Pure evil. The words came into her mind, lit up in neon. She had to fight down the panic again.
“I want tonight to be perfect,” he said as he put the rest of the pasta on his own plate. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through to make this night happen.”
He went back to the stove and brought over the saucepan, ladled out some sauce on her pasta, then he did the same on his own. She watched him, strangely transfixed by his movements. Wondering again how any of this could be happening.
“I always hated this lake,” he said as he sat down.
His cheek twitched as a thin line of blood dripped down onto his plate.
“Until that last summer,” he said. “The summer we were together.”
The words washed over her. She’d been sixteen years old back then, her parents sending her up here to spend a month with her grandparents. The last thing young Jeannie had wanted to do, spend four weeks in this stuffy little house that smelled like liniment and cigarette smoke, with nobody else around less than four times older than she was, without a television even.
And then on top of that, there was the strange boy across the lake.
Watching her.
Stalking her.
Taking pictures.
“You remember . . .” he said. The same boy, grown into a man, sitting across from her now. She would have never recognized him.
Until she saw those eyes. That same unblinking stare that had sent a cold chill through her body even then, as she sat on the edge of the dock, refusing to move. Refusing to give in to this stranger.
Until she’d look up and see him again, impossibly close to her, the camera around his neck. Wondering how he’d been able to sneak up on her, wondering how long he’d been standing there. That smile he’d have on his face when their eyes met. And how she’d finally break down and go inside, just to get away from him.
I never said a word to you.
Not once.
“Jeannie . . .” His voice went lower as he put his fork down. She closed her eyes and tried to stop shivering.
“Eat your dinner.”
She kept her eyes closed.
“I SAID EAT YOUR FUCKING DINNER!”
He banged both fists on the table as he yelled, rattling the plates. The shock sent her back in her chair like a slap across her face. She fumbled for the fork, held it in her hand like she couldn’t even remember how to make it work.
“Martin . . .” she said. The name sounded strange on her own lips. Almost obscene.
“This is not how tonight is supposed to go!” he yelled, taking out the gun and slamming it on the table. “You’re ruining it!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, so softly she could barely hear the words herself.
“Listen,” he said, fighting to control himself, measuring every word carefully. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. But you have to understand something, Jeannie. You have not made this easy for me. I think I’ve been more than patient.”
She could see the veins standing out in his arm as he gripped his fork. She kept waiting for him to scream again. To come over the table at her. She could practically feel his hands around her throat.
“All this time, Jeannie . . . All these years. I kept thinking about you. Searching for you . . .”
Her whole body was going numb.
“And then I saw that picture from your wedding day,” he said. “The whole world saw that picture. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
She could feel herself slipping away now, into some deep recess in her own mind. His voice sounded like it was coming from someplace else. Another room in another house. Something about a picture. And a wedding day. The last blink of recognition before she slipped away even farther. That old photo her friend Lisa had put on that Facebook page she had set up for her. I told you not to do that, Lisa. Who’s dumb enough to put a divorced woman’s wedding photo on Facebook?
“You belonged to me, Jeannie. Not to that baseball player. Not to that cop.”
The voice driving her deeper into herself. The last remaining place where she could be safe.
“You were married to him for nine years. Over three thousand days of your life.”
There was a movement, just a flickering shadow she could barely see. Then she felt the fork being taken from her hand.
“It was a mistake. But it’s not too late, Jeannie. Even now, it’s not too late for us.”
Something touching her face now. Like a towline, bringing her back to the room. Bringing her back to her own self.
No. I don’t want to be here.
“I want to believe that,” he said, his voice in her ear. “I have to believe that.”
She was back now. In this room, feeling his breath against her face, the cold tiles on her feet, the hard wooden chair against her back.
“You have no idea what will happen to you,” he said, staring into her eyes, “if you can’t make me believe.”
She let out her breath as he took a step back. Then from one moment to the next, another kind of relief, as she let go of her bladder and the warmth spread out beneath her on the chair and then moved down her legs. She didn’t care anymore. It felt strangely comforting.
“Now eat your dinner,” he said. “Before it gets cold.”
As the tears started coming down her cheeks, she found her voice again. “What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” he said as he returned the gun to his belt. “As soon as Alex gets here.”