The Woman in the Window(102)

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.

Now.

I thrust the shears ahead of me and leap through the water. If he’s waiting for me, he’ll be— I freeze, my hair streaming, my clothes soaked. He isn’t there.

I scan the rooftop.

No sign of him by the boxwoods.

Near the ventilation unit.

In the flower beds.

Lightning overhead, and the roof blazes white. It’s desolate, I see—just a wasteland of unruly plants and frigid rain.

But if he isn’t there, then—

He crashes into me from behind, so fast and so hard that the scream is knocked out of me. I drop the shears and fall with him, my knees collapsing, my temple slamming against the wet roof; I hear the crack. Blood floods my mouth.

We roll across the asphalt, once, twice, until our bodies ram into the edge of the skylight. I feel it shudder.

“Bitch,” he mutters, his breath hot in my ear, and now he’s righted himself, his foot pressing on my neck. I gurgle.

“Don’t fuck with me.” He’s rasping. “You’re going to walk off this roof. And if you don’t, I’ll throw you off. So.”

I watch raindrops seethe on the asphalt beside me.

“Which side would you choose? Park or street?”

I shut my eyes.