since moving to Seattle; and, of course, several pictures of Guy.
But there were no pictures of Guy’s father.
Hannah didn’t talk about him.
Joyce Bremner lived in an apartment building two doors down the block. While walking with Guy, Hannah always used to see her in front of the building, working on the garden. A widow, Joyce had three children and seven grandchildren, none of whom lived in Seattle. She’d made it clear that if Hannah ever needed a baby-sitter, she was available.
Four nights a week Joyce picked up Guy from Alphabet Soup Day Care; then she took him home, cooked dinner, and got him ready for bed. Guy was crazy about her, and so was Hannah.
After being pleasant to people all day, Hannah had very little social energy on tap at night. All she wanted to do was see her son and spend a few minutes with him before he fell asleep. Joyce always seemed to understand that. Once Hannah plodded through the front door, Joyce stayed just long enough to welcome her home and give her an update on Guy. She also told Hannah what they’d had for dinner—usually something canned or processed; Joyce wasn’t much of a cook.
As she threw on her raincoat, Joyce revealed that SpaghettiOs had been tonight’s fare. Also, they were running low on milk, Parmesan cheese, and, of course, Chips Ahoy.
She opened the door, but hesitated and turned to Hannah. Behind her, the Space Needle was illuminated in the distance. “Before I forget, honey,” she said, her brow furrowed, “you had two more hang-ups tonight. I think it’s the same person who kept calling and hanging up yesterday. I tried star-six-nine, but both times, it told me the number was blocked.”
Hannah sighed. “Like I said last night, I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably some telemarketer.”
Joyce grimaced a bit. “Well, I thought there was someone on the other end of the line, listening to me. But—I don’t know, I’ve been wrong before, once or twice in my life.” She shrugged and blew Hannah a kiss. “Oh, well. Take care, hon. See you tomorrow.”
Hannah nodded. “G’night, Joyce.” She watched the older woman retreat along the walkway to the stairwell. The night wind kicked up.
A chill passed through Hannah. She stepped back inside and closed the door. Her son was waiting up for her. The thought of him made her smile. How did he know that she really needed to spend some time with him tonight?
Hannah padded down the hallway to his room. Guy’s nightstand lamp was still on, but he’d fallen asleep. A picture book of trucks was slipping from his grasp. Studying him, Hannah ached inside. She hadn’t gotten a chance to say good night to her little guy.
He was a handsome kid: straight blond hair, beautiful green eyes, and impossibly long lashes. Last week, she’d had him in the cart seat at the supermarket when another woman approached her, asking if she’d ever considered having her son model. “A couple of commercials, and it’ll pay for his college education,” the woman had said. She’d given Hannah a business card. She’d seemed on the level.
Hannah knew she didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell at putting Guy through college on her video-store salary. Yet she’d thrown out that business card. No matter how much money they offered her, Hannah wouldn’t let them put Guy on TV or in a magazine—not the briefest appearance, not the tiniest ad. After all, what if someone recognized him?
She gingerly pulled the book out from under his hand, then set it on the bookcase. Trucks were his latest thing. Just a few months ago, he’d been crazy about rockets and outer space. He still had a mobile of the planets hanging from the ceiling, but Hannah knew that was old hat to him by now. Various Tinkertoy trucks occupied the bookcase where model rockets, star charts, and plastic replicas of the planets had once resided.
Hannah switched off his bed-table lamp. A Bugs Bunny night-light glowed in the corner of the room. Tucking the blanket under Guy’s chin, she kissed his forehead. She’d missed him tonight, but they’d have tomorrow morning together.
Hannah’s feet started aching again as she retreated to her bedroom. She peeled off her outer clothes, then wandered into the bathroom.
Under the shower’s warm, wet current, she began to relax. She let the gushing water wash away all the stress and bitterness.
Once she’d dried off, Hannah changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms. She poured a glass of wine, then set some leftover pasta on the stove.
While dinner cooked, Hannah fished the mystery video from her bag and turned on the TV. She ejected a tape from the VCR: her daily recording of
Hannah popped the cassette into her machine, then sat on the sofa arm and sipped her wine. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, suddenly mesmerized.
She’d gotten someone’s homemade sex tape. On the screen, a woman Hannah didn’t recognize squirmed beneath a man in bed. The picture quality was very professional, even with the dim lighting. But the shirtless man was out of focus. He seemed like a mere shadow hovering over the attractive, slim, thirtyish blonde. Hannah couldn’t tell if the woman was in ecstasy—or just uncomfortable. While writhing beneath her partner, she winced and rolled her eyes. He opened her blouse and began kissing her breasts.
Hannah watched with fascination as they kissed and fondled each other on the bed. Somehow, the man seemed to elude the camera the entire time. Hannah could see his actions, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t even make out his hair color. He was Caucasian; that was the only thing she could tell about him. Otherwise, he was just a blur in the foreground. The woman was the star of this little movie. And Hannah got the impression that she didn’t know she was being videotaped.
The movie must have been shot with two steady, mounted cameras, then edited, because the angles changed at different times, yet all the movements matched. Whoever made this video certainly knew what he was doing.
For a moment, the woman’s face was obscured by the man as he reached toward the nightstand. He must have switched on a strobe lamp, because the scene became illuminated by pulsating flashes of light. The woman seemed disoriented.
Hannah thought she saw him pull a knife out from under the mattress. She wanted to stop the video; play it back and see if she was mistaken. She glanced around for the remote, but didn’t see it. Her living room was bathed in the stark, flickering light from the TV screen.
On the video, the man’s lovemaking had now become frenzied. Almost in sync with the frantic, pulsating strobe, he pounded against her with his pelvis. The woman seemed to be pleading with him to stop. Hannah saw him raise the knife. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “What is this?”
She watched in horror as he plunged the knife down into the woman’s chest. He did it again, and again. The pretty blonde started to scream, but then she appeared to go into shock. She stopped struggling.
He kept stabbing her. Yet the wide-eyed, dazed expression on her face didn’t change. Her body took each savage, bloodletting blow without so much as a twitch. The woman was dead.
Numbly, Hannah stared at the TV screen—and at that poor woman. The blurry form of a man finally pulled away from his victim. The blonde lay amid the bloody bed sheets, naked and perfectly still, illuminated by the staccato light flashes. Her eyes were open, unblinking.
“Jesus,” Hannah whispered. “This looks real.”
From the sidewalk, he had a view of the third-floor balcony walkway—and her living-room window. She was watching the tape, he could tell. He could see the rapid, flickering light from her TV, like a lightning storm going on inside her apartment. It was the strobe lamp in the video.
Hannah was watching the murder right now.
He wished he could see her reaction. Was she terrified? If only he were watching the movie with her: That would have been something. Like a great director, he manipulated his audience. He pulled the strings, and Hannah Doyle responded.
He wanted to be there while she responded.
