Page 22

With her back to the unpainted drywall, Eve inched down the corridor. Overhead lights hummed a shrill note, and soft footsteps mulled about. Eve tilted an ear to the stucco ceiling and discerned several different gaits, all unhurried, meandering. She tightened her grip on the hammer, inched up to a corner, and dared a glimpse around. Another narrow hallway, familiar but renovated—it led to a slice of carpeted room, bathed in warm light.

After a few more seconds of waiting, listening, she eased forward, up to the room’s precipice, and paused there, taking it all in. This was the garage-sized space, the one that, only the day before, had been concrete, covered in dust, and lined with rickety shelves. Now, it was a fully finished games room. Beige carpet, forest-green walls, sports-themed beanbag chairs planted around an unfinished game of Scrabble. In the far corner, framed vinyls hung above an air hockey table: AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Slayer. In the other corner, a Portland Winterhawks jersey and some hockey trophies were on display behind a granite minibar.

Above, a squealing groan, something heavy dragged across hardwood. A couch? The grating pitch rose higher and higher until… silence. Okay…

Every step deliberate, Eve crossed the games room and peered into the next hallway. Its yellow walls were adorned with black-and-white nature photography. Laminate flooring stretched to a darkened staircase. Without making a sound, Eve reached the bottom of the stairs and began her ascent.

She skirted around the stairwell corner and slowed. In the blackness above, a thin rectangle of light leaked through the door’s outline. From beyond, a murmur of voices trickled down, muffled and indistinct. Clinking glasses. Laughter. A dinner party? Eve hesitated, but…

Find Charlie. Find Shylo. Get the fuck out of here.

As Eve continued climbing, that outline of light drawing closer—the smell of sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy filled the air. Still gripping the hammer, she cracked the door, gazed into the living room, and, of course, everything was different.

Everything was decorated like a 1950s American dream house. Minimalist furniture. Blue-green patterned wallpaper. Mahogany hardwood floors. Everything quaint and suffocatingly nostalgic. If not for the flat-screen TV hanging above the fireplace, Eve might’ve thought she’d been transported back in time. Her eyes flicked to a hanging clock: 7:39 p.m.

Out of view, in the kitchen, familiar voices: Paige, Thomas, and their children. Eve, keeping quiet, hidden, slid from the basement, crept a couple of steps closer, and listened in:

“Maybe she just went out for a walk?” a nasally voice suggested. Newton?

“It’s freezing out there,” Paige’s chirping voice retorted, sounding more irritated than concerned. “Thomas, why don’t you go check downstairs again?”

Thomas replied with a reluctant sigh. “As you wish.” The feet of a chair squealed over hardwood, a short scrape. Heavy footsteps started across the kitchen, toward the living room, and, at the last second, Eve stole away into the foyer, soundless. Her feet padded across black and white tile as she surged to the front door, reached for the knob, and—still locked. From the outside. She faced the nearest window and… still barred—

Thomas caught her by the arm, spun her around, and muttered, “Where are you going?”

Eve tried to wrench away, but Thomas constricted his grip, viselike. With his free hand, he yanked the hammer from Eve’s grasp and held it out of reach. “The hell are you doing with this?” he seethed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eve, trapped in a state of slow-motion shock, attempted to speak, but only a wheezing breath escaped. She was torn between the impulse to flee, the urge to grab that hammer back, and…

It’s like quicksand; the more you fight the charade, the worse it gets…

With a low sigh, Thomas pulled Eve into the hallway, tightening his already crushing grip, sending a dull ache up her arm. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure they were alone. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he said, “but I need you to listen to me.” He stared into her eyes, his expression severe. “You have to get yourself together or I’m calling the ward again. Do you understand, Emma?”

Emma?

His breath catching, he added, “The kids—they can’t have their aunt running around the house like a lunatic.”

Evemet his stare with bewildered eyes. Emma? Their aunt? Finally, she managed to speak. “What— What the fuck is this?”

Ignoring the question, Thomas took a new tack, smiled sadly. “You’re my sister.”

Sister?

“I’d do anything to help you.” He paused. “But this, having you stay with us—this is your last chance, okay? I can’t put my family’s sa—” Thomas stopped himself. Did he mean to say “safety”? He continued. “I can’t put my family’s stability at risk anymore. Do you understand?”

Thomas kept talking, but his words blurred into the background, wom, wom, wom. Whatever he was saying, his performance was so convincing, it sent a pang of doubt into Eve’s psyche: Was she truly delusional? Was she actually his sister? Was her name actually Emma? No. That wasn’t how hallucinations felt, not how insanity worked… right? He was toying with her—this was his game, just like what happened to Alison, but… No, that would make even less sense, and—

That terrible voice of nothingness murmured into Eve’s ear. She could almost feel its cold breath, brushing at the nape of her neck: Maybe Alison’s note was right, it said. Maybe Thomas has lived here since before the house was even built, before the trees were planted. Maybe he wandered out of the woods in the light of day. And maybe, just maybe, the only way to stop this is to—

Shaking off the intrusive thoughts, Eve sharpened her focus: Bide your time, play along until you find the right moment to escape. Come back with help. Rescue Charlie. Rescue Shylo. Don’t provoke Thomas. Not yet.

Somewhere deep within, she clung desperately to the wild hope that there was still, somehow, a logical explanation for everything—a practical way to escape, but…

“Emma?”

Evemet Thomas’s gaze. He’d asked a question she hadn’t heard.

He repeated himself. “What were you doing with the hammer?” He presented the tool as if it were something Eve had attempted to steal.

She forced out an excuse. “I— I just wanted to hang some paintings…”

“In the middle of dinner?”

Eve nodded gently. Just play along…

Thomas studied her, skeptical. “You’ve been keeping up to date on your meds, right?”

Eve nodded again.

“Okay.” Thomas took a deep breath and released her arm. “All right.” Absentmindedly, he set the hammer onto a cherrywood side table and rubbed his jaw with a knuckle. Eve sensed he was almost forcing himself to believe her. Again, he deserved some kind of award for this performance.

“Now,” Thomas continued, “we would love for you to rejoin us at the table. The kids are a little spooked, but we can show them everything is okay. Tell them their aunt was just looking for something in the basement and got distracted, all right?”

Eve swallowed. “All right…”

Thomas reached out and held her gently by the shoulders. She fought back the urge to recoil and faked another smile instead. Thomas smiled too, that same charismatic smile from when she’d first seen him, standing on her doorstep only one night ago, a complete stranger. Suddenly, Eve noticed an absence of pockmarked scars on his face and neck… the ones Alison had supposedly inflicted with a silver-tipped pen. But before Eve had a chance to process what this meant—

“We love you, Emma.” Thomas’s voice cracked with dreadful sincerity. “You’re a part of this family. I know it doesn’t feel that way sometimes, but you are.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Whatever you’re going through,” he went on, “you’ll come out on the other side. You’ve gotten through worse. I know it’s scary—big changes always are—but we’re all pulling for you. Paige included…”

The only response Eve could muster was a pitiable “Thanks…”

“Now.” Thomas smiled again. “Let’s get back to dinner.”