“Whoa,” said Sam. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”
“I can’t tell you how to feel, Simone. It’s simply what’ll happen.”
Sam turned away to stare out, too, at the uncompromising vista that was all rock and ice and pines and snow, the only movement an eagle circling and circling, seeking prey for breakfast. She felt dismay at the turn this morning had taken: William’s dismissiveness; their lack of an actual alarm system, and now this, his cold-blooded predetermined plan for the Rabbit. But he had been living with the reality of this threat for years, and he was under deadline pressure, and Sam had woken him screaming in the night. Neither of them was exactly at their best.
“Can we at least change the locks?” she said finally.
William seemed to return from wherever he was. “Yes, if you don’t mind handling it. I really need to keep on top of the book.”
“Done.”
“Deal,” said William.
He looked down at her then and seemed to remember who Sam was, smiling for the first time that morning. He bent to kiss her, his nose an icy blade. “Let’s go get warm,” he said. “I have some ideas.”
The Rabbit
I’m near the entrance to the glass box they call the Scriptorium, watching Sam Vetiver write. Supposedly. What she’s really doing is nothing. She’s just staring out at the lake. I know writers do a whole lot of that. I used to do it myself. But that woman has not written more than four words since she’s been here. I don’t know why she even bothers to come to the desk. Her writer brain is basically toast.
You’d think losing her authorial self-respect would be enough reason for her to leave. Or maybe seeing a woman in the bedroom closet at night with a box cutter. But no. That would be something a sane person would do, and we are not dealing with a sane person. We’re dealing with a woman under the spell of William Corwyn. The D*ckmatizing, the gaslighting—I’m sure he’s told Sam Vetiver I don’t exist, she dreamed me up, like Scrooge telling Jacob Marley he’s just a bit of potato. Dickens and Alfred Hitchcock have nothing on this guy.
Well, I’m not a figment or a spud. I’m here and I’m real, and if Sam Vetiver’s not going to leave on her own, I’m going to make her. I thumb the blade in and out of my trusty box cutter, psyching myself up. She’s in here alone. William’s in his study, actually writing. If I do this right, she won’t make a sound.
The problem? I can’t make myself move. This part is not fun. It’s so hard. I’ve been slapped. Punched. Kicked. Screamed at. Pepper-sprayed—that’s how I found out I’m allergic to chilis. It took days for the swelling to go down enough for me to see, let alone until I stopped looking like a goggle-eyedgoldfish. I had to hide at home in my sh*thole, I lost a whole week’s work at my store. And those are the encounters that have gone well.
Plus it’s extra risky here. Unlike in the outside world, there’s no quick escape off the island. The snow and ice will slow me down, make me easy to track. Even if I’m fast, I’ll be more visible.
But this f*cking woman. As I feared, Sam Vetiver is stubborn. And just because she’s a pain in my @$$, just because she’s made it harder for me by moving in with William, it doesn’t mean I can break my promise.
I size up the room. Who would choose to write in a glass box like this? It’s so creepy how the walls are invisible. Like being outside. A sitting duck. But whatever. Luckily it’s a cloudy day. There won’t be any reflection to let Sam Vetiver know I’m coming. And I’ll make no sound on the slate floor in my socks.
I focus on the hollow at the base of Sam Vetiver’s skull, exposed by her stupid side braid with the pen in it, above the top knob of her spine. Slide one foot over the threshold. Then the other. Clutching my box cutter like a rabbit’s foot for luck, hot in my hand. Blade out. Rehearsing what I will say.Don’t move, and donotscream—
“Simone? I’m making a sandwich. Do you want one?”
William, pounding through the great room. I hit the floor just in time. Scrabble backward on hands and knees to beneath the dining room table.
“Jesus,” Sam Vetiver says as he bounds into the Scriptorium. “You startled me! I should make you wear bells around your neck.”
For once I one hundred percent agree with Sam Vetiver.
“That would be one place for them,” he says. He tweaks her dumb braid and smacks a kiss right on the spot I was just looking at, then guides her hand into his sweats. “I know another.”
As they get going again, I creep back through the house toward the basement. It’s my own fault for being such a weenie. The longer I wait, the more entrenched Sam Vetiver gets, and the harder it is for me to do my job. This is not like the previous times with the other women. This is worse. And even if it does go badly, I have to risk it. Because my vow. Next time he’s really distracted. Next time she’s alone. I’ll take the first chance I can get.
Chapter 32
Orion
The next evening Sam was in the hot tub alone. Usually William accompanied her, got in first, and held out his hand to help her. But tonight he’d gotten a phone call he wanted to take in his study—Do you mind, sugarplum? I’ll join you ASAP—so Sam was on her own beneath the dark trees, watching the phantasmagoric swirl of the northern lights, flinching at everycrack!of branch or ice, and clutching a big rock.
It was probably stupid, Sam knew. Not because she hadn’t seen the Rabbit. She had. But because if the Rabbit was still here and intended Sam harm, Sam’s rock wouldn’t make much difference. The Rabbit had a knife, Sam was pretty sure of it, and in the game of Knife versus Rock, Knife won every time. But Sam might have the advantage of surprise.
She tipped her head back. At least the lights were fantastic, shimmering green and shooting flares across the Milky Way. Sam remembered from her research forThe Sodbuster’s Wifethat Scandinavian settlers thought the lights were a good omen, whereas some Native Americans believed they were spirits of ill-tempered giants kicking a walrus skull around the sky. Either way, they were said to be departed souls, crossing over—
“Bubble bubble toil and trouble,” said William from the dark, and Sam screamed, hurling the rock in his direction. She felt more than saw him duck and swear.
“Simone,” he said, looming up next to the tub in his spa robe with her rock in his hand. “What is wrong with you?” On his face in the green light was a look of almost insane rage, and for a second Sam feared he might smash the rock into her head. Then it was gone, so quickly Sam wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all.
