The Sixes

“I wouldn’t know,” Bruce said. “Why so interested? Are you considering writing about this?”

“No, no,” Phoebe said. “Celebrities are my beat. I’m just curious.”

“What about all this serial killer talk?” Jan asked. “Do you buy any of that, Bruce?”

So, Phoebe thought, that theory was now off the leash. She bet it was moving like a brush fire on campus—and she wondered if Tom Stockton had lit the match.

“It seems awfully farfetched,” Bruce said. “But I do know there’s a reporter from the New York Post asking a lot of questions, and if he picks up on that theory, he’ll go crazy with it. And the media will descend like vultures.”

“Did you know there’s actually a target age for serial killers?” Jan said. “I read that female victims are usually between sixteen and thirty-eight. When I learned that, I put it on my list of reasons to not hate being over forty.”

“And please tell—what are some of the other reasons?” someone asked behind them. It was Duncan’s voice.

“Actually, that’s the only one I’ve found so far,” Jan said. “Phoebe, do you know Duncan Shaw?”

“Um, yes, hello,” Phoebe said.

“Can I get you a refill?” Duncan asked, nodding toward her wineglass. She glanced down and saw that the glass was almost empty.

“Sure,” Phoebe said.

As Duncan maneuvered through several clusters of people toward the bar, Jan asked Bruce about a study he was doing on delayed gratification. Phoebe only half listened. Her eyes roamed the room, searching for where Val had gone off to. She didn’t look like the type who let a man out of her sight.

“Here you go,” Duncan said, returning a couple minutes later. Phoebe turned away from Jan and Bruce, who were now deep in conversation, and reached for the wine. As her hand encircled the glass, her fingers brushed against Duncan’s, and she felt a momentary spark. He looked into her eyes, holding them.

“Were you at the service tonight?” she asked. “I didn’t see you.”

“Yes, though I was a little late,” he said. “For some reason I thought it started at seven thirty. What did you think of it?”

“Well done. But so sad, of course. I hear Lily was a psych minor.”

“Yes, apparently,” he said, forced to move a little closer to Phoebe as more people entered the room. “Miles said he had her in a few classes, but I never did. Any news about the police investigation?”

“I’m not privy to much. I did hear that the cause of death was drowning.”

She cringed as soon as the comment escaped her lips. She wondered if hearing the word drowning was troubling for Duncan.

“How’s your situation, by the way?” Duncan asked. If the topic was tough for him, his tone gave no indication. “Any more problems?”

“I had a weird chat today with someone I suspect is in the Sixes,” she said. She offered him a few highlights of her conversation with Blair. “She was very cagey. And I can absolutely imagine her sneaking into my house.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “You leave New York, only to have someone break into your house here.”

“I know. The worst thing that ever happened to me in Manhattan was having my car keyed.”

Just then, someone jostled her from behind, and she was shoved forward, her breasts pressing into Duncan’s arm. She righted herself, trying to look nonchalant, but she felt her cheeks redden.

“You aren’t going to throw in the towel and head back to New York, are you?” he asked.

“Why?” she asked. “Are you afraid of the blow to the English department?”

The expression in his eyes shifted, no longer solemn.

“Actually, I’m not thinking of the English department.”

Oh, please, she thought. If he was seeing Val, why make flirty little comments to her?

Before she could think of a response, she felt a long, thin arm brush against her own. She knew who it was before she heard the deep voice.

“Hello, Phoebe,” Val said. She was wearing flowy black pants and a black jersey top, cut low. Around her neck were half a dozen silver chains, each dangling a different object—an antique cross, a burnished silver vial, a shark tooth—into her cleavage. If I gave her five dollars, Phoebe thought, she would probably tell me my fortune.

Phoebe nodded in greeting.

“What a surprise,” Val said. “I’ve never seen you at a faculty get-together before.” Then she laid her long, slim fingers on Duncan’s arm.

“I’ve got an eight o’clock, so we should go now,” Val said, turning to Duncan. “Ready?”

“Um, yeah, I guess,” he said. “Do you need a lift home, Phoebe?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m all set.”

She said good night and set down her mostly full glass, thanked Jan for the invitation, and snaked through the crowd, hoping to beat Duncan and Val to the door.

She didn’t mind the walk home. The crisp October air was energizing. She’d left lights on in the house, and when she reached it, she saw that it seemed cozy and inviting from the sidewalk.

Phoebe let herself in the front door, and after peering around to make sure nothing was disturbed, she tossed her coat on a chair in the living room. She peeled off her boots, plopped on the couch, and laid her feet on the wooden trunk that she used as a coffee table.

Let Val have Duncan, she thought, allowing her body to sink into the sofa. There was no denying she found Duncan attractive, but no romantic entanglement here meant no chance for regret. Plus, she had other things to concentrate on right now—like figuring out what the Sixes were up to and staying out of Tobias’s way.

Outside a car approached, its engine a dull hum, and then seemed to slow as it reached her house. She felt her body tense, on alert, but the car kept going. Don’t be paranoid, she chided herself.

But then there was another sound, this one much closer. She bolted upright and strained to hear. It was a scratching sound—almost like branches blown by the wind back and forth across a window. It’s coming from the kitchen, she realized with a start, or immediately outside the back door. Was someone trying to get in?

From where she sat on the couch, she could see part of the kitchen, including the back door. Frozen in suspense, she stared at the handle of the door. It wasn’t turning, and she couldn’t see anyone in the glass above it. The scratching stopped, but five seconds later, as she finally took a breath, it started again. Maybe it’s a mouse, she thought. She’d seen a package of traps on a shelf in the pantry off the kitchen, so it was clear Herb had once been plagued by them. She forced herself from the couch.

By the time she reached the kitchen door, the scratching sound had stopped again. Her eyes flew over the room, searching, but she had no clue what had made the noise. If there was a mouse, it might be inside the walls or in one of the cabinets.

And then the noise was back. It was more of a knocking now, and as she turned in its direction, she realized it was coming from the refrigerator—from the freezer part on top. Was something wrong with the motor? she wondered, now completely baffled.

She moved across the room and closed her hand around the freezer door. She yanked, pulling it open.

She saw that there was something dark and clumpy at the back, like a wet wig, and then suddenly something sprang at her, hitting her in the chest. She stepped back as the thing fell to the floor with a hard thud. Her eyes shot to the ground. It was a rat, a brown one with a hideously long, hard tail. She gasped, watching as it writhed by her feet. After only a second or two, it collapsed, dead or dying. Her eyes were drawn back into the dark mass at the back of the freezer. To her horror she saw that there were more rats, huddled together and motionless. She started to scream, but all that came out of her mouth was a ragged groan.

She stumbled from the kitchen, her pulse pounding in her ears. Moving frantically around the living room, she searched for her purse. Finally she found it on the table by the door and groped for her phone. She needed to call the police, to get them here now. But then she stopped. Her thinking seemed muddled and slow, like someone trying to run through water, but she knew that she should call Glenda first. Because she knew the Sixes had left the rats, just as they’d left the apples.

Glenda answered her cell phone on the second ring, her voice low, as if she was in the midst of something. In the background was the murmur of voices.