The Sixes

“Why don’t you come by my office in the science building at six,” he replied. “I’ll show you around the lab and then we can head to my place.”

“Great,” she wrote, though the idea of seeing the lab made her squirm. “Btw, have you heard the news about Trevor Harris?”

She watched the screen, waiting, but nothing else appeared. Their brief exchange had lifted her mood, but now she felt her unease return, weighing down on her.

She took her soup to her office and typed up notes from her conversations that day with both Alexis and Wesley. When she was done, she printed out a set for Glenda and one for Hutch as well, which she would drop off tomorrow. It would be good to get his input, though she wondered if he’d feel he’d been wrong not to take Wesley seriously.

Next she went online and searched date-rape drugs like GHB and roofies. She quickly learned that victims often appeared normal after they’d been slipped the drugs, and people around them might have no idea they were under the influence. And just as Wesley had told her, they might later experience total amnesia about what had transpired.

When she’d finished reading, she closed her eyes and massaged the area between her eyes. Her brain hurt, and so did her body, from so many hours in the car. She shut off her laptop and, leaving several lights downstairs blazing, mounted the stairs to her bedroom.

As her head sank into the pillow a few minutes later, she picked up a faint musky scent, and she realized it was Duncan’s cologne, still lingering in the fabric from the other night. Until she’d received his e-mails, she had kept thoughts of him mostly at bay since the morning, but now, as sleep began to overwhelm her, she allowed a few to roam her brain. I can’t help it, she realized. I’m dying to see the man again tomorrow. Sure, it’s just a fling, she told herself, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t relish it. In fact, maybe that’s why the sex had been so intense and exhilarating the other night—because they both knew it was destined to end before long.

She woke with a start after three, cold all over. Searching the bed with her hand, she found that the duvet had slipped off onto the floor. She slid out of bed and began to drag the duvet back onto the mattress. As she stood barefoot on the cold floor, adjusting the duvet, she froze. There was a noise, like a machine running. Her heart seemed to ram into her rib cage.

Phoebe flicked on the bedside light and listened. There was definitely a noise, the low, steady hum of a motor of some kind. She grabbed her phone and forced herself to tiptoe into the hallway. Whatever the noise was, it was coming from downstairs. With her heart still pounding hard, she made her way to the top of the stairs. It’s the dishwasher, she realized after a moment. She could now hear the rush and swirl of water.

But she hadn’t run the machine after dinner, and even if she had, it wouldn’t still be running now. The dishwasher in her city apartment had a delay feature so it could run hours later. Did this one have the same feature, and had she set it accidentally? She didn’t think so; it was an old model.

Damn, I’ve got to go down there, she told herself. She flicked on the stairwell light and edged down the stairs. As soon as she reached the third step from the bottom, her eyes flew to the front door, to the chain lock. From the light she left on, she could see the lock was still in place.

She’d left the kitchen light burning, too, and as soon as she approached the room, she could see that the chain was still in place on the back door, too.

She relaxed a little. This has got to be a mechanical fluke, she told herself. She entered the kitchen and ran her eyes rapidly over all the fixtures. Nothing was amiss. The only sound in the room was the swish and swirl of water.

Phoebe approached, set her phone on the counter, and rested her hand on top of the dishwasher door. Open it, she told herself. You have to open it.

***

IF SHE’D BEEN smart, she would have just backed off, concentrated on her work and on things that couldn’t be taken away. But she hated the fact that she’d been shut out of doing any writing and editing. So she bided her time for a bit, mulling over her options, and then went to an English teacher who seemed to like her. She had an idea, she said, for a quarterly poetry magazine with a twist. There’d be no selection or rejection process. Everyone would have the chance to have one poem published in it. “That’s a lovely idea,” the teacher had said.

There was hardly anything special about it, and some of the poems that were submitted were like the stuff you found in greeting cards. But it was a success in terms of volume and participation. The first issue debuted at thirty-one pages long.

Four days later the note arrived in her mailbox. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? But you’re not. You’ll see.”

Below the words, the writer had drawn a tiny wheel.

17

PHOEBE TOOK A breath and slid over the rusted lever on the dishwasher door. The rushing-water sound ceased instantly, and the house was now utterly quiet. She paused for a moment, steeling herself. Then she slowly opened the door. A spray of water splashed onto her, and she glanced down instinctively. But it wasn’t just water. The wet mark the water had left on her white pajama bottoms was tinged pink.

She gasped. The water was mixed with what looked like blood.

Letting the door flop back into place, she stumbled backward. It was them again, she realized—the Sixes. They’d gotten inside again somehow—while she was sleeping.

She grabbed her phone from the counter. She’d programmed in Craig Ball’s number the other night, and she hit it now. Her fingers, she saw, were trembling. As the phone rang, she rushed into the living room, checking all around her. Since both chain locks were still on, they must have gone out a window, she thought. But how had they gotten in? She felt as if she was in one of those nightmares in which the walls and the doors of your house dissolve, and you feel completely exposed and vulnerable.

“Ball,” a voice said. It was low but not groggy, as if he’d already been awake.

“It’s Phoebe Hall,” she blurted out. “They’ve broken into the house again. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

“You’re talking about the girls—the Sixes?”

“Yes—and I think there’s blood. In my kitchen. I don’t know who it belongs to.”

As she talked, she positioned herself by the front door, ready to bolt if she had to.

“Okay, I’m ten minutes away, tops.”

“Should I call the police, too?”

“Uh, just wait till I arrive, okay?”

As soon as the call ended, she froze and listened again. Could they still be in the house? she wondered frantically, but she heard nothing now, only the low groan of the furnace. She leaned back against a small cabinet to