I drag myself to the studio door, which is only a foot away but seems at least a hundred times farther. Glancing behind me, I see I’m bleeding. Heavily. The pain continues its assault, tuning out nearly every other sense. But I’m single-minded on getting Clementine out of there and away from that goddamn painting. Fromher.
Back on my hands and knees I try to take a few deep breaths, but they’re shallow and do little to clear the light-headedness.Keep going, Tilly. She needs you.
I reach up and grasp the door handle. It’s locked.Your watch. Use your watch, Tilly.I sit back on my heels, scream with a fresh wave of pain, but at least in this position I can access my watch. Sweat drips down my face, and I hastily wipe at it with the back of my hand to clear my vision. “Unlock studio door,” I say, holding the watch close to my mouth.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” the robotic voice says. “Please try again, Tilly.”
I rattle the door’s handle with every bit of strength I have. “Open the door, honey! Open the door!”
There’s no response.
“Unlock. Studio. Door,” I say again, clenching my teeth to keep the chattering from muddying my words. There’s too much noise in the hallway; the rain slams into the window’s steel coverings; the wind howls through the oaks and between cracks in the home’s brick and stone.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” the voice says. “Please try again, Tilly.”
I set both hands on the door handle and pull myself to standing. I cry out as I do, because it’s as though I’m being split in two. The alarm pad on the door swims in and out of focus.
“Do not pass out, Tilly.You cannot pass out.”
Still clutching the handle, I lean heavily against the door and type in my code. But I’ve fumbled the numbers and the redXappears on the screen. I know I only have one more chance before I’ll have to reset the password. On my work tablet, which is downstairs on the kitchen island. I’ll never make it.
The keypad is old, and I wish I’d replaced it with one of the newer fingerprint or retinal scanner ones. But I try again, slower this time to ensure I hit each key only once: 0-4-1-9.
My mother’s birthday—April 19—and again, today’s date.
“I’m coming, Clem. Momma’s coming!”
The keypad screen flashes green and the lock disengages. Relief fills me. I press down on the handle and the door flies open, my body’s weight heavy against it.
I can’t comprehend what I see when I stumble inside.
Clementine stands directly in front of the painting, rigid. The subject’s hands are on her face, cupping her cheeks. The subject smiles, sharp teeth startlingly white against the blackness of the painting’s background. Her eyes are locked on my daughter.
I don’t hesitate. Closing the gap between us, one arm cradling my belly, I reach the other toward Clementine.
Almost there…almost there…
I close my hand around Clementine’s, which is hanging by her side,readying to pull her toward me and out of the studio. But before I can, the subject’s right hand leaves Clementine’s cheek and wraps around my wrist. Her grip is ice-cold, vise-like and possessing superhuman strength.
Clementine stumbles backward with the push and pull, and I position myself between her and the painting. The subject tightens her grip on my wrist. There’s a pop, a sharp pain, and I know it’s broken. I scream but hold my position.
“Get out of here!” I yell at Clementine. She’s fallen to the floor on her back and isn’t moving. Her eyes have rolled back in her head, only the whites showing. I shout her name again, trying to rouse her. A moment later her limbs jerk, and she whimpers.
“Get up, Clem. Please, honey, get up.” I’m moaning in agony, every part of me consumed by fiery pain.
She sits up, slightly hunched, and looks at me in confusion. “Momma? What happened?”
There’s no time. “Run, Clementine. Go get Nana.Run!”
The subject’s eyes—my eyes—remain on Clementine as she runs from the studio, before turning on me. We’re locked in an unblinking stare. A second later a contraction consumes me, and I slam my free hand against the canvas. Trying to balance myself, to stay upright.
There’s sudden movement under my hand. Like water ripples in a slow-moving creek tickling my palm, the oil paint becoming fluid. Running down the canvas, coating my fingers, then my entire forearm with warm, blackish paint.
“What do you want?” I whisper, staring into her eyes. I’m desperately trying not to succumb to the pain. Oh, what a relief it would be.
The subject tilts her head to the side, purses her lips. Then she blinks, and the moth antennae Charlotte Leclerc used for eyelashes shimmer like beating wings.“I want what you have, Mathilde.”
The voice is like wind chimes in a lazy breeze.
