The Woman in the Window(101)

Down, down, down.

I blink. The stairwell is plunged into darkness again. Nothing to see, nothing to sense, except the percussion of the rain.

I haul myself to my feet, fly down the steps. Thunder rolls outside. And then: “You bitch.” I hear him stumble onto the landing, his voice wet. “You bitch.” The banister creaks as he barges into it.

I need to get to the kitchen. To the box cutter, still unsheathed atop the kitchen table. To the slivers of glass glittering in the recycling bin. To the intercom.

To the doors.

But can you go outside? asks Ed, just a whisper.

I’ve got to. Leave me alone.

He’ll overtake you in the kitchen. You won’t make it outside. And even if you did . . .

I hit the next floor and whirl like a compass, orienting myself. Four doors surround me. The study. The library. The closet. The half bath.

Choose one.

Wait—

Choose one.

The bathroom. Heavenly Rapture. I grasp the knob, tear the door open, step inside. I lurk within the doorway, my breath short and shallow—

—and he’s coming now, rushing down the stairs. I don’t breathe.

He reaches the landing. Stops, four feet away from me. I feel the air stir.

For a moment I hear nothing except the drumbeat of rain. Sweat creeps down my back.

“Anna.” Low, cold. I cringe.

Gripping the frame with one hand, hard enough to prize it loose, I peek into the dark of the landing.

He’s faint, just a shade among shades, but I can make out the span of his shoulders, the floating white of his hands. His back is to me. I can’t tell which hand holds the letter opener.

Slowly, he rotates; I see him in profile, facing the library door. He gazes straight ahead, motionless.

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.