The chicken was roasted with lemon and sprigs of thyme from Ida’s herb garden. She sautéed potatoes and served them with steamed greens. Of course, Ida let a giant knob of butter melt over the greens, and of course, the pair of them had one too many beers to wash it all down.
Now Jane Harper is asleep on Ida’s sofa, snoring steadily. There came a point when Ida knew Jane would end up staying the night—there was no way she could’ve driven home safely. Ida fetches a thick blanket, knowing how cold the house gets at night sometimes, even when the days are so hot. She covers Harper over and turns off the TV, but puts a small lamp on in its place—that way the detective will remember where she is, instead of waking in the dark in a strange house. As she begins to leave, Ida rests her palm on Harper’s head.
“There you are, sugar. You rest easy now.”
The lamp flickers and the room warms slightly.
The white mist rises, the connection is made, and Ida sees something take shape in her mind’s eye, a memory, a dream, something from Harper’s subconscious: removing her wedding ring and setting it down on a dresser. Looking around a house as if she’ll never see it again. Licking the edge of an envelope before sealing the letter inside. Setting the envelope next to the abandoned wedding ring.
And then: Harper driving away from the house, belongings in boxes in her car. Looking back in the mirror and not feeling deflated, or sad, but liberated. Leaving, walking away from hard situations comes easily. It’s a comfort to her, not being rooted in any one spot.
Ida removes her hand, breaking the tenuous connection.
“But rooted is what you want, ain’t it, sugar?”
She thinks of Bob Dylan singing “Like A Rolling Stone.” That’s Harper, a stone without a home, rolling from place to place. On her own.
Ida goes to bed, leaving Harper to dream her dreams in private, hoping that with enough rest her visitor might find some peace. But for Ida there will be none. That night, sleep finds her.
And, in her dreams, so does he.
“Oh thank Christ you’re here, Lester!” Ceeli lets him in, closing the door behind them. She leads him into the living room and they sit on the sofa. There are a few lights on in the house, and darkness beyond the windows. “I’ve been worried sick. I didn’t know what was happening.”
She can see Lester’s shock at her appearance. Her eyes have nearly closed up, the bruising has come out fully. She is talking funny because her jaw doesn’t want to work.
“What’d he do to you?” he asks her.
“Beat me. I thought he was gonna kill me when he found out about us,” she says. “What happened when he got to your house? You haven’t been answering your phone.”
“Difconnected it.”
“Oh.” Ceeli studies his face. “So . . . what happened?”
Lester licks his top lip, the one that’s twisted up in the center, revealing his teeth and gums. “Nothin’. He didn’t fhow.”
She frowns. “He didn’t? That’s strange.”
Lester shrugs.
“Maybe he went off someplace,” Ceeli says, though her tone does little to hide the fact she is unconvinced.
Lester scratches the side of his face. “How’d he find out?”
“Julie next door, she told him. I think maybe she caught us up to something,” Ceeli tells him. She reaches out, takes his hand in hers, gives it a squeeze. “But don’t worry, honey. It’s out in the open now. We can be together. And there ain’t gonna be no worryin’ about Mack, Julie, or anyone else.”
Lester pulls his hand away. “Don’t want that.”
“Lester honey?
He puts his hands on her shoulders, forces her back on the sofa till she’s lying in front of him. She looks nervous, a little scared. And he can see it—she’s excited. “Thif if what I want,” he says.
“Oh, honey, I wish I could . . . I’m so sore.”
Lester lies on top of her. He kisses the side of her neck, his warped lips making sucking noises on her skin.
“Please . . . ,” Ceeli begs him.
He looks at her blackened, puffy face. Her sad eyes peering out from deep bruises.
“You want to know how it feelf?”
Ceeli struggles, but he is strong. He is experienced. She lets out the beginnings of a scream as he tears her clothes off and clamps his hand over her mouth. She tries to hit him with her right arm. Lester pins the arm up over her head, holding it against the armrest of the sofa.
He looks into her eyes. “You’re trouble. You’re all trouble. But they are different. They’re good. You . . . you’re nothing.”
Lester’s grip eases, and for the briefest second, Ceeli thinks he is letting her go, but then he brings a cushion down on her face. Pressing, pressing, pressing . . .
All those times he managed to restrain himself from killing her, from strangling her to death. Now he can follow it through. Lester lifts the cushion, throws it to one side, and grips her neck in his bare hands. Ceeli tries to pull his forearms away, but his arms are locked. She tries to fight, tries to breathe, suck in one last breath. Lester shifts his grip so he can manage it with one hand, and yanks down his bottoms to grant freedom to his throbbing cock. Ceeli passes out in front of him. Lester lets go, reaches into his pants, and removes the white mask, the belt. He puts it on and there’s a change in the air. He has arrived.
Lester slaps Ceeli around the face. Her eyes open, then widen at the sight of him with the mask on.
Now you’ll feel it.
Julie turns off all the lights and carries her book upstairs. She’s been a fan of Stephen King for years, but his latest fails to keep her attention. And yet sometimes books have a way of surprising you. You read fifty pages, thinking it isn’t connecting, and then something clicks and you’re in. She thinks she’ll give Mr. King another night or so of reading, to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it’s not looking hopeful.
Julie puts the book down and heads to the bathroom. She turns on the water, squeezes toothpaste on her electric toothbrush, and puts it in her mouth. It vibrates away as she works it around her mouth, massaging her gums, getting in all the nooks and crannies.
SMASH!
Julie stops the toothbrush and listens. All is silent. She puts the brush back in her mouth, turns it on, dismissing the sound. Maybe she’s hearing things. Maybe it’s something outside.
SMASH!
She stands there, looking in the mirror, as if her reflection can explain to her the noise coming from downstairs. She stops the toothbrush, spits into the sink, and steps out on the landing. The bottom of the house is dark. Still. Quiet.
Julie watches the stairs for movement, but there is none.
Call the police.
She doesn’t know what to do. What if it’s a cat that got in? That happened once before—she locked up for the night and didn’t realize a cat had gotten into the house during the afternoon. In the middle of the night, she woke to find it bouncing off the walls, smashing all of her china.
Julie throws the light on in the hall and starts down the stairs.