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THE CLOCK CHIMED midnight somewhere out there in the house. Shauna Bulger stared at the ceiling and counted the bongs echoing up the hall. There were so many new night sounds that registered with her only now, since Mark was gone. She’d worn earplugs at night to mask the sound of her husband’s snoring since she was forty. He’d been two days dead before she realized she didn’t have to do that anymore.

Some of the night sounds, she liked. The patter of rain on the roof. The rattle and groan of hot-water pipes. But there were others that she couldn’t identify. Pops and creaks and whispers that made her huddle under the blankets. She refused to sleep with a light on, though her mind screamed for her to expel the blackness that swirled in every corner. She also refused to indulge her impulses to double-check all the window locks, to rattle the deadbolts on the front and back doors. She forced herself to ignore the mystery sounds. They gave way only to icy, ringing silence.

It was in the silence that her mind drifted, and she wondered how long she would be able to defy Henry’s plan for her. She told herself that if she was stuffed into a home, there would be plenty of noise from the other residents, at least. Friendly, identifiable sounds. People shuffling about in their rooms, chatting, visiting, playing music. Nurses knocking on doors. Phones ringing. Life sounds. She would be enveloped in a community. Safety in numbers. Life in a nursing home seemed like it could be comfortable and predictable. There would be routines, of course. Wake-up times, lights-out times, familiar carers and staff who would listen patiently to her stories and requests. Shauna would be able to adapt easily to the new identity, would probably have one assigned to her on arrival. She would be Mrs. Bulger of Room 17, Pleasant Meadows Nursing Home. Knitting enthusiast. Avid reader. Permanent resident.

A nursing home, and then a grave,Shauna thought.

That’s all that was left in her future.

She was just beginning to turn wilder fantasies over in her mind when she heard the sound. She was imagining herself selling the house and buying a yacht, running breakfast tours along the coast, something like what Bill Robinson was doing. Except her patrons wouldn’t be the weirdos and dropouts Bill described as populating his inn. They’d be adventurers full of stories, foreigners, wistful people drawn to the horizon and the salt air and rumors of good food and coffee.

A boot squeaked on the floorboards in the hall. Her mind identified the sound perfectly and immediately. A footfall in her empty house. Shauna sat bolt upright and looked at the depthless black outline of the open doorway. She watched the shape widen, then split as two people entered her room.

She was blinded by an explosion of light.

“Get up, bitch,” a voice said.