“I might be able to get something from the curtains or even the couch. It’s upholstered, and it’s never been washed. That will make it easier . . . and harder, depending on use.”
“Why harder?”
“Everyone who has lived here most likely sat here. It didn’t belong to just one person, wasn’t worn or held or touched by a single hand.”
“Like fingerprints on a door handle.”
“Yes. Exactly. Hard to tell the layers apart. The curtains have probably been washed, though not often. But the same problem exists. The couch would have absorbed more. No one wraps themselves in the curtains.”
He shrugged and pointed his beam at the sofa. “Give it a try.”
She started by running her hands in a grid-like pattern, up and down, up and down, working her way across the length of the old couch. Images flashed, but they were blurred and indecipherable. A watercolor painting smeared with grime. When she hissed and swayed, yanking her hands back, Malone took her arm, steadying her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s like being jostled by a crowd. Or spun in circles. It’s making me dizzy,” she said, sheepish, but she tried again, moving her hands more slowly, trying to make sense of the colors and shapes.
“Diagrams. Anatomy. Da Vinci’s proportions of the human body,” she reported, but the man in the circle spun away and a sobbing intern—Jacob?—took his place. Jacob didn’t want to be a doctor. He dreamed of blood, dripping limbs, and pustules oozing with terms he—Jacob?—repeated in monotone, as though he studied for an exam.
“Jacob lived here last,” she said. “Isn’t that what Sybil said?”
“Yeah. Jacob Bartunek.”
“He’s . . . miserable.” She slid her hands to the left, but there was nothing else to see but the muddied wash of too many memories. Her stomach lurched again, and she clutched at it.
“What do you see?” Malone asked.
“This isn’t going to work, I’m afraid.” She closed her eyes, trying to settle the spinning wheel in her head. “Will you let me hold on to you for a minute?”
“Hold on to me?”
“I need a clean slate,” she whispered. “Let me hold your hands . . . just until my mind clears.”
He shoved his flashlight in his trouser pocket and did as she asked, enveloping her palms in his. His hands were rough and raw-boned, his father’s hands, he’d said. He’d seemed proud of that, maybe because he resembled his father in so few ways.
His hands anchored her instantly, and the murky miasma dissipated, as if he’d wiped it away. She’d never had someone to hold her hands after a bad spell before. She’d always had to recenter herself.
“Is that better?” he asked, as though he thought he might be doing it wrong.
“Yes. Much better,” she whispered, but she tightened her fingers so he wouldn’t let go. Just a minute more. “I know you think when I touch you, I’m divining all your secrets,” she said.
“You are.” His voice was mild, but she could feel the tension in his grip.
“I’m not. I don’t read skin, and I don’t hear your clothes when you’re wearing them. I tried to explain when . . . when we argued.” Better to say “argued” than “kissed.” “You said I was touching your shirt, so I knew everything.”
“And you don’t?” he murmured.
“I can’t hear the cloth against . . . living . . . flesh. It’s like the warmth and heat of the real thing—of life—is too loud. It’s rather nice, really.” It made fittings a pleasure when every other aspect of her profession was fraught with snags and the pinpricks of private thoughts.
He cocked his head, turning toward the door, her hands still clutched between his. She’d expected a different reaction.
“Michael?”
He stepped forward suddenly and clapped his hand over her mouth, sliding his other arm around her waist as he did.
“Shh, Dani.”
She jerked in affront, and then she heard it too. The groaning of the stairs beneath a heavy tread and the rattle of keys. Malone was suddenly moving, running, pulling her behind him down the hall. He yanked at the dangling chain hanging from the bulb in the bathroom and pushed her toward the first bedroom. He dove after her, shutting the door behind him as the front door screeched and swung open, indicating they had company.
Whoever it is has a key, she thought. He belongs here. We are the trespassers.
Malone was rigid against her, hardly breathing, his cheek against her hair. She heard the snick of Malone turning the lock on the door. She flinched, certain the stranger had heard it too.
Whoever had entered the apartment proceeded through the space without hesitation, the tread heavy and slow but the steps sure, as if the darkness were of no consequence and the visitor was at home.
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door they stood behind. A hand slapped against it, as if the stranger was surprised to find it closed. The knob turned and held. The stranger grunted, confused. He rattled the knob, insistent, and Dani bit back a scream, burying her face in Malone’s chest. His heart drummed and his arms tightened, but he didn’t move.
The person on the other side of the door grumbled again, but he didn’t tarry. Three footfalls and a tug later, the light from the bathroom seeped through the crack beneath the door and touched their feet. The slap of water hitting water came seconds later and continued for a solid minute. The stranger was making use of the facilities. The whoosh of the toilet and the footsteps retreating down the hallway were followed by a long groan and the scrape of clawed feet against wood floors.
He’d settled on the sofa.
Flatulence, belching, another scrape, and a series of squeaks as the couch protested the weight of its occupant. Then all grew quiet.