TJ: That’s not true.
FM: I can just picture it, you know. You’re going to do one of those reenactment things at this point, right? Like how they did in that Robert Durst thing? Like, you’ll find some actress who kind of looks like me, and you’ll restage the event. All those horrified women. And the music. The music will be terrible.
TJ: I’m not . . .
FM: I think . . . Can we stop for the day?
TJ: Of course we can, Franny. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.
FM: It doesn’t matter.
TJ: Yes it does. I know it can be tough to sift through all this, but that’s what makes it real. Do you understand?
FM: It’s not real, though. It’s not even close. Ted gets it, I think. He doesn’t make me talk when I don’t want to.
TJ: Who’s Ted?
FM: Ted Borenstein. You know, the Vanity Fair writer?
TJ: You’ve been talking to Ted Borenstein?
FM: So what if I have?
17
INTRUDER
CECILY
There’s someone trying to get into my house.
I lie in the inky dark, gripping the sheet beneath me, my heart shuddering.
There’s a heavy tread on the deck beneath my open window. It’s not one of the kids. It’s not the sound of anyone I know, even if it made sense for someone I know to be creeping around my house in the middle of the night, which it most obviously does not.
I grope for my phone on the nightstand. It’s not there. I left it downstairs on the counter where I placed it after I got a text from Teo asking me if I’d gotten home all right. We’d ditched our landline two years ago—a decision I’d fought at the time because cell phones could die or not be within easy reach when you needed them. Tom had hushed my fears. We hadn’t received any calls on our landline except for telemarketers for years, and what could possibly happen with us both there safe and snug? I’d agreed rather than fight him.
And now look. My life seems to be one long series of my worst fears being realized.
Two more heavy steps, and now it’s the sound of someone rattling the handle on the sliding door. Barely breathing, adrenaline and anxiety fighting for prominence, I roll onto Tom’s side of the bed, trying to keep my breathing regular, trying not to make the bed squeak. I slide my hand under the mattress. It’s still there, the knife Tom kept in case of intruders, the one I was never happy about because what if the kids found it?
“There are plenty of knives in the kitchen,” he’d always say in the tone he used when he thought I was being an irrational mother. And then I’d start to doubt myself, even though I knew that this knife, in its hunting sheath, hidden away, would have an attraction to the kids that all the ordinary, everyday knives sitting in the butcher block never would.
“At least it’s not a gun,” I hear Tom’s voice saying now. But right at this moment, with my children asleep in their rooms down the hall, I wish for a gun. This knife I’m clutching is useless to me if whoever’s trying to get in my house intends violence against the kids or me.
The kids.
The handle rattles again. I force myself to stand and pad quietly across the carpeted bedroom floor. The room’s pitch-black because this is how I’ve always needed to sleep, and now that Tom’s gone, I can shut the blinds and wait until my alarm wakes me rather than rising with the vagaries of the sun.
My hand reaches for the doorknob. I find its cool surface and ease open the door. Out in the hall, I think I can hear breathing, but that might be my own. I get to the door to Henry’s room before I freeze in fear. I feel like I have Sophie’s choice. How can I protect both my children at once? How could I ever choose between them?
Another click from downstairs, and I hear a muffled curse. Instinct drives me to Cassie’s room. She’s the easiest to wake. She’s lying on her back, her arms splayed above her head, her phone still clutched in her hand. I shake her gently. Her eyes flutter open.
“What—?”
I place my hand across her mouth as I lean down and whisper into her ear. “I think there’s someone trying to get in the house. Don’t say anything. Follow me to Henry’s room. Bring your phone.”
Her eyes are wide with fear, but she nods. She looks so young and vulnerable in her too-small T-shirt and the matching bottoms that graze her calves. We hold hands as we cross the hall. We stop as we hear something tapping against the glass. Cassie’s shaking so hard it feels like she’s vibrating. I tug her hand, pulling her into Henry’s room and locking the door behind us. I grab the chair from his desk and tilt it under the door. Cassie sits on the floor next to Henry’s bed, huddled into the space between his nightstand and the bed frame. Henry couldn’t be more oblivious, snoring gently, his covers pulled up to his chin the way he’s always done ever since he was a tiny thing.
I sit next to Cassie on the floor and pry her phone from her hand. She tries to speak, but I shake my head. The battery’s low, but there’s enough to make a call. I can’t help but notice the text on her screen from Kevin. Sleep tight, it says.
My fingers shake like they did a year ago when I texted the kids to let them know I was alive as I tap out 911. I press the phone against my ear, turning the volume low. The woman who answers asks me to state the nature of my emergency.
“Someone’s trying to break into my house.”
“I’ll need you to speak louder, ma’am.”
“Someone. Breaking in. My. House,” I hiss. “Send the police.”
“Ma’am . . . are you there, ma’am? Do you need the police?”
I call up the keypad and press the number one, loud and long.
“Is that one for
