When she woke, her brain felt thick, wiry, an old scouring pad. Her phone was ringing. Her hand was tangled in Marie’s hair.
Missed call and it had to be Charlie, but it wasn’t. She was relieved for a second, then, obscurely, sad.
The voicemail clicked and beeped, and then a flinty voice began talking and talking and Dara felt the stir of old wine in her belly.
“. . . All-Risk Randi here, remember me? I’m like a bad penny. I was hoping you might be able to make time for me this morning. Planning to swing by, say, nine o’clock? Maybe I can speak with your sister too. So I’ll see you then if I don’t hear from you. Same address, same spiral stairs?”
Dara put her hand over her mouth. She thought she might be sick.
Pulling back the bedspread to rise, she saw Marie’s bare legs and arms covered in lurid rosy hives.
* * *
*
She guessed Charlie had spent the night nestled in the contractor’s marriage bed with his PT, the wife. In other rooms, there were children sleeping innocently. Everywhere, there were Derek’s things, the smell of his aftershave, all his shiny boots. Charlie, she thought, in the same bed, on those same sheets as Derek.
What did it matter, she thought. How different is he from Derek? She might never know.
Once, in the night, she had woken with a jolt. Derek’s injury, the pipe spraying hot water on him, the flood. Had that been Charlie’s first, failed attempt?
She might never know.
* * *
*
I dreamt about that old-timey dancer last night,” Marie said, her face puffy and voice scratched. “The one who caught fire.”
“I remember,” Dara said, trying to make the coffee go down, the instant crystals sludged at the bottom of the mug from the day before.
That story their mother used to tell—the dancer whose tutu brushed against the footlights and burst into flames. Whenever she heard it, Dara couldn’t help but feel herself burning. She was feeling it now, her feet tingling. Marie standing before her like a clean flame.
“She refused to wear the skirts that were safe,” Marie said, rubbing her face. “She only wanted to wear what was light and beautiful.”
Dara turned to the stove, her hand over the stove burner, lighting the jet for more coffee.
“She wanted what she wanted,” Dara said, the words tipping from her mouth, which felt hot, too, felt thick with hot water.
“But in my dream,” Marie said, “I was the one onstage. And it was my skirt that went up, up, up in flames.” She turned and looked at Dara. “And you were there.”
Dara didn’t say anything, watching the kettle.
“You saw me and you cried out,” Marie continued, her voice urgent and pained as if she were dreaming it now. “You threw Mother’s rabbit blanket over me and smothered the flames.”
That blanket again, Dara thought. The one she’d left moldering in the basement the other day.
“The flames ate the fur,” Marie said, rising and walking toward Dara. “But they never touched me at all.”
“Marie,” Dara said, turning off the stove.
“He set a fire in me—Derek. No, I set it in myself. But I’m burned through now, you see,” Marie said, her voice quivering but strong. “I’m burned through and now it’s over. It’s over.”
She reached out for Dara’s hands and held them in her own, hot as a burner coil. Dara swore she could feel Marie’s blood rushing under her skin.
It was like Marie was awake. Awake for the first time not just in six weeks—the sex haze and humiliations, the impulsivity and retreat—but in months, years maybe.
It was like seeing someone who’s been away so very long, their face changed, the shadows heavy now, but in the eyes a flash of something ancient and pure.
Oh, Marie, she thought. I’ve missed you for the longest time.
* * *
*
She told Marie to go straight to the Ballenger.
“I have to meet with the insurance lady,” she said. “She wants to talk to you, so you can’t be there.”
“No,” Marie said, pulling their father’s sweater over her shoulders, “I’d rather not.”
“We can’t let her in,” Dara said firmly. “We have to get her out.”
They’d had invaders enough.
* * *
*
As they put on coats, gloves, silently, the shush of their shoes, the scatter of bruises on Marie’s neck as she threw a scarf around it, Dara kept thinking of what could happen. All-Risk Randi suspected it wasn’t an accident. The likeliest and most convenient suspect? The wife with the big, fat insurance policy her bosses will have to pay out. But how many steps might it take to find out about Marie? About Charlie? There were things investigators knew how to find out. There were cameras everywhere now, the parking lot, the traffic lights. Phones told them everything. There was no private world anymore. The larger world had turned itself inside out, was seeking to infiltrate every smaller, private one. The home, the family.
Seeking to pass judgment. To prod and probe at a safe remove.
No one wanted to face the truth. That every family was a hothouse, a swamp. Its own atmosphere, its own rules. Its own laws and gods. There would never be any understanding from the outside. There couldn’t be.
“Are you going to tell the police?” Marie asked suddenly. “About Charlie?”
“No,” Dara said. “Not now.”
They both paused. It was one of those moments—they’d had them before, the night their mother struck their father in the head with the cast-iron pan and he dropped to the floor so fast Dara and Marie both burst into tears. For a long moment wondering what to do, like all the times their father had chased their mother around the house or that time he locked her in the garage overnight and Dara and Marie only found out in the wee hours, her screams finally frenzied enough to wake them from their sleep. They didn’t ever call anyone. That was not something any of the four of them ever did. It wasn’t what you did. You kept going.
* * *
*
Driving into the lot, she looked up at the third-floor window, which was dark, its glass smeary.
Randi Jacek was waiting at the front door in a pantsuit and puffy vest, palming a vape pen. “Terrible habit,” she said. “But we all can’t be as healthy as dancers.”
* * *
*
Inside the studio, there was a chill in the air, as if the furnace had broken in the night.
When they stepped inside, Dara had the thought: What if Charlie is here? She couldn’t see him, not now.
But as they moved through the studios, the coolness sinking in their bones, there was no sign of him.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Randi was saying, following Dara to the back office. “I know you have your show coming up.”
“Performances. Sixteen performances,” Dara said, her voice tight. “The detectives said you might be back.”
“Like a bad penny,” Randi Jacek said, repeating the same joke.
“Or a bulldog.”
Randi smiled. “My reputation precedes me. Detective Walters?”
Dara nodded, pulling her coat tighter, setting her hand on the radiator. But Randi Jacek didn’t seem to notice the cold, or the smell in the air, like an electric iron left on the pad too long.
* * *
*
The back office was warmer, its door shut overnight, trapping the last of the heat. But everywhere else, the floorboards and ceiling beams were creaking and popping from the cold.
“All yours,” Dara said, stepping back. “Though I can’t imagine what there is left to look for.”
Randi nodded distractedly, her eyes back on the staircase. “And your sister? She’ll be here soon?”
“She’s at the theater. You know, our ‘show.’”
Randi looked at her, smiling generically.
“Ms. Durant, you know what?” she said. “Last night, my husband made chicken riggies for me.”
“Pardon?”
“Chicken, rigatoni, peppers. We had it on our first date. We’ve made it together on anniversaries, special occasions. And last night, out of nowhere, chicken riggies. I got the point. Fella can’t come out and say he misses me, but . . .”