Page 102 of The New Couple in 5B

A woman, dressed in a slim pencil skirt and white silk blouse, a wide-brimmed hat hiding her face, her dark hair in an elegant chignon, stands in the shadows. She wrings her hands, moves back deeper into the shadows. She’s an image that won’t come into focus.

My heart rate rising, my breath growing tight, I strain to get a closer look.

When she finally turns her face to me, our eyes lock. They’re dark and swirling, like a galaxy. I’m pulled in, drawn to her. Who is she?

It takes a second, my mind grappling with where I’ve seen her before.

In photographs.

When I recognize her, a gasp escapes my lips. Ella pats my leg to comfort me, assuming that I’m in the throes of grief.

It’s Willa Winter.

No.

Impossible.

She shuttles away.

“Excuse me,” I say, slipping out of the pew to follow the sound of her footfalls on marble.

“Are you all right, Rosie?” whispers Ella.

But I’ve already left her, chasing the slender form down a long hallway, past rows of doors, the voices of the next speaker ringing after me.

Ahead of me, a door opens and closes. By the time I turn the corner, the hallway is empty.

I push through the door at the end of the hallway and hear the delicate staccato of footfalls on the steps, heading toward a lower level.

“Wait,” I call. “Please wait.”

I find myself at the bottom of the stairwell, another door to push through.

Now I’m in the basement surrounded by chairs stacked, old tables, shelves of bibles, a dusty organ. I follow the sound of her steps deep through the winding passageways.

The door behind me opens and closes then.

Someone has followed me into the basement.

Here, the first notch of fear, realizing that I’m trapped.

I move quietly, and finally, when I turn the corner, she’s there, backed against a wall, still hiding her face behind that wide brim.

“Please. Who are you?”

When she tilts her head up, I let out a cry, almost a shriek—her neck is ruined, swollen purple, blue, black. Her eyes bulge like Dana’s, a tear of blood down her face. She moves toward me, hand outstretched, causing me to back away, terror pulsing through my nerves and veins.

I hear my father’s voice.They’re just pictures. They have a story they want to tell you. You’re one of the few who can hear what they have to say.

She moves closer and I continue to back away.

She’s whispering something over and over. Finally, she’s close enough for me to hear.

They’re watching. Be careful. You’re—in danger.

And then she’s rushing past me,throughme, and I’m knocked to the floor where I lie stunned as she disappears into nothing.

I stay still in the dim, the concrete cold beneath me, struggling with what just happened. Every nerve ending zinging like guitar strings. Pain—in my abdomen, my shoulder where I struck the floor. Shuddering as I used to when I was little, unable to make sense of either world—the one I saw that no one else could see, and the real world, which was equally unpredictable and unsafe. The familiar taste of shame and anger coats the back of my throat.