“What the fuck? That’s not?—”
The man’s voice cuts off mid-word, but Vivienne can hear him shouting through the walls—shouting that it’s not him inthat picture, not him strangling the young woman, not him walking away when her body falls, lifeless, to the pavement.
“You sick fuck!” another of the players says. “You sick, sick fuck.”
The man continues his muted shouts of innocence, punctuated now by pounding at the wall.
The image changes. It’s still night, but on an empty road, where a BMW idles with its lights off.
“Hey,” a woman’s voice says. “That’s my car.”
The picture zooms in to show a figure behind the wheel. Vivienne recognizes her as one of the players—Kate Lindsey, from sales.
“What?” Kate says. “I don’t remember…”
Kate trails off as a figure walks onto the screen. The car revs, and the man turns. The headlights go on, blinding him, and he dives out of the way, too slow, as the car speeds toward him. Kate shouts, “No!”
A sickening thunk as the car strikes the man. Then it reverses over him and Kate screams that it isn’t her, she didn’t do it, her car is fine—go look, it’s fine.
Vivienne reaches up to fling off her goggles, but the strap tightens and pain stabs through her skull.
The picture changes to a hallway. One she knows so well she can picture every detail of the photographs lining it.
“No,” Vivienne whispers. Tears stream down her face, pooling in the headset. “Please, no.”
The camera pulls back to show Vivienne in her nightshirt. Her eyes are blank, unfocused, as she moves purposefully toward her destination.
She turns into the nursery. Ahead is the crib.
Vivienne squeezes her eyes shut. But it doesn’t help. She still sees the picture, as if projected onto her visual cortex.
She stands over Hannah’s crib. Reaches in. One hand strokes the baby’s head. Then she takes a stuffed dog from the end of the crib.
No pillows for babies, guys. She can have one toy, but it stays out of reach, or she might…
Or she might…
Vivienne places the stuffed dog over her infant daughter’s nose and mouth…and presses down.
Screaming.Sobbing. Wailing. That’s what Vivienne hears. It all comes through the walls, though. Comes from the others. She can’t make a sound. Can’t speak. Can’t think.
No, that’s not true. She can think.
She thinks,I did not do this. Not willingly.
And she thinks,It doesn’t matter. I still did it, and I can’t live with knowing that.
The answer is simple. She will leave this booth, and she will not go home, never go home. She’ll drive to the city. Find a bridge. Plenty of them in San Francisco. Find one and jump.
“Vivienne?” the voice says on the speaker. “You saw what you did.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“We have proof that it was.”
“It was my body, but not under my control.”
“Are you suggesting we used mind control to make five people commit murder?” A dry chuckle. “I certainly hope that isn’t your legal defense. Claiming postpartum depression would be the way to go, though it will cost you your husband, custody of your children.”
