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The world is a fairground ride, rolling to a stop. Lucy says her son’s name, then screams it. For a moment, her brain seizes. Then: ‘Where are you? Tell me where you are, what you can—’
‘Mummy, you need to listen.’
She puts out a hand to the bookcase. ‘OK, I will. Just tell—’
‘I’m going to say something important.’
Her abdomen feels like someone’s plunged in a corkscrew.
‘You found the phone.’
‘Fin?’
He keeps talking. As if he hasn’t heard her. ‘You need to look for something else.’
In a flash, Lucy understands. This isn’t a live conversation with her boy. It’s a broadcast, a recorded message.
The moment she realizes, it starts again.
‘Hi, Mummy. It’s Fin.’
Beat.
‘Mummy, you need to listen.’
Beat.
‘I’m going to say something important.’
Beat.
‘You found the phone.’
Beat.
‘You need to look for something else.’
Lucy turns, half expecting to find someone in the doorway. But the hall, beyond the bedroom, is empty.
‘Go downstairs, Mummy.’
Teeth clenched, knife thrust before her, Lucy does as she’s instructed.
‘Go to the living room.’
She complies, sweeping it for intruders. No one lurks by the window. No one waits behind the door. She checks the shadows behind Daniel’s houseplants, the blind spots behind the sagging Chesterfields. Wind twines through the broken windows, stirring the heavy drapes. She’s alone.
Lucy’s gaze moves to the artworks crowding the walls, a collection reflecting two decades of her changing taste. She examines the fireplace – its cast-iron mantel festooned with finials and pilasters.
Her gaze is pulled back to the art. As her eyes move over the paintings, her skin prickles and she shudders. She can’t figure out what’s wrong, and yet—
‘Mummy, on the bookcase are two books.’ Fin sounds like he’s reading from a script. ‘One isThe Painted Word. The other isThe Unknown Masterpiece.’
She scans the shelves for them.
Fin says, ‘Mummy, I—’