Night Film(201)

There was a house ahead. Nestled in the trees, it looked like so many others I’d seen on the main island, battered, covered in wooden shingles, a splintered shutter dangling from a window. Gasping to catch my breath, I slung myself up onto the porch, grabbed the rusted knob, and opened the door.

It was a deserted room—stark wooden furniture, dim light, an old ceiling fan whirling overhead.

A large oil painting hung directly across from me on the wall. It was a man’s portrait, his warped and chalky face retreating into a black background as if melting. I stepped inside, then froze, my eyes drawn to movement in the far corner. There, by a wall of dark windows, sat two leather-and-wood mission chairs like waiting thrones. On a small table beside one, a cigarette was burning—Murad, no doubt—white ribbons of smoke uncoiling off the end.

I moved toward it and spotted a pair of folded wire glasses, the lenses round and pitch black. Beside them was a bottle of Macallan scotch—my scotch, I noted with astonishment—and two empty glasses.

I turned, sensing someone watching me.

He was there, a hulking dark silhouette in the doorway.

Cordova.

A hundred things went through my head in that moment. Hunters stare their prey in the eyes and what do they see? I hadn’t known I’d ever find him, and, if I did, whether I’d have the impulse to kill him, condemn him, or weep. Perhaps I’d pity him, brought to my knees by the vulnerable child inside every man. But I had a feeling he’d been expecting me, that we were going to do nothing more than sit down in those empty chairs, one father with another, and as the rain fell and the smoke coiled around us, weaving another hypnotic spell, he’d tell me. There would be unimaginable darkness and streaks of blood inside it, this tale he told, which would probably last for days, screams and bright red birds, and astounding hints of hope, as the sun, in an instant, can christen the blackest sea. I’d learn more about the lengths people went to feel something than I ever thought possible and I’d hear Sam’s laughter inside of Ashley’s.

I didn’t know the end or what I’d find when it was over—if I’d stare at the rubble and recognize his story as one of evil or fallen grace, or if I’d see myself in all he’d done, trying to save his daughter, in his insatiable need to stretch life as far as it would go, risking it breaking.

Somehow, I sensed as soon as he told me, he’d find a way to be gone, faster than the wind across a field. I’d wake up somewhere far away, wondering if I’d imagined it, if he’d been here at all, inside this quiet house poised at the edge of the world.

The one thing I did know, as I stepped toward him, was that he was going to sit down beside me and tell me his truth.

And I would listen.





A Note about the Interactive Elements of Night Film


Dear Reader,


If you want to continue the Night Film experience, interactive touch points buried throughout the text will unlock extra content on your smartphone or tablet. These hidden Easter eggs include new images and audio. If you have a device with a rear-facing camera (connected to WiFi or a cellular network), please follow these steps to access the bonus content:

1. Visit NightFilmDecoder.com to learn how to download the free app.

2. Install the Night Film Decoder app on your device.

3. Search for the bird image below in select illustrations throughout Night Film. When you see it, launch the app on your device and scan the illustration with the camera until a Play button appears on the screen. Hint: Not every one hides a secret.





4. Press the Play button and enjoy.




If you experience any issues with the Night Film Decoder app, please email [email protected].





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Night Film would not have been possible if not for the guidance and support of a world-class group of people.

Binky Urban: Your reality is even better than your myth. Thank you for your sage advice, friendship, huge heart, and always telling me like it is. Many thanks to the team at ICM who are the best at what they do: Margaret Southard, Molly Atlas, Daisy Meyrick, Karolina Sutton, Rachel Clements, and Ron Bernstein.

Kate Medina: Your editorial insight and passion for Ashley’s story continually challenged me as a writer, pushing this book to new heights and depths. Thank you for giving me the courage to tread even deeper down those dark corridors (and for Alexander McQueen).

Lindsey Schwoeri: Your close and perceptive reading of that early draft led me in an entirely new direction, cracking new and unexpected doors for me to open. Thanks for pointing them out or I might never have known they were there.

Anna Pitoniak: Your enthusiasm and creative suggestions were a breath of fresh air. The way you juggled with Ginger Rogers–style aplomb so many of the different elements that it took to assemble this book was awe-inspiring. Thank you for never missing a beat.

To my Dream Team at Random House who worked round the clock with such fearless passion on my behalf:

Gina Centrello, thank you for being my fervent champion.

To Sally Marvin and Karen Fink—thank you for your zeal, your outside-the-box ideas, and being so totally cool.

Many thanks to Debbie Aroff for dreaming up the many ways in which to merge the Night Film universe with the real world. Thank you, too, to Maggie Oberrender for your behind-the-scenes contributions.