Now, this morning, Malcolm places a hand on her back. Clare arches. She takes hold of him and pulls him in against her, kissing him. She cannot make sense of this warmth. Even in the early days with Jason, when they were insatiable, there was always a coldness between them, an air of detachment. This affection from Malcolm feels almost too much to bear. Clare pulls away from the kiss and rests her head on his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Clare doesn’t answer. A car horn blasts out the window. She reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table and sips it. Malcolm props himself against the headboard. Clare brings herself to sit too, wrapped in a bedsheet.
“What is it?” Malcolm says. “Are you okay?”
There’s a knock on the door. They both jolt.
Clare reads the fear on Malcolm’s face, a mirror of her own. She stands up, collects her clothes from the floor, and scrambles into them. Malcolm plucks his jeans from the chair in the corner and pulls them on. He looks at Clare and touches a finger to his lips. Quiet. He retrieves a gun from the drawer of his bedside table, then moves to the door and squints through the peephole. He turns back to Clare.
Charlotte, he mouths.
“Malcolm?” comes her voice on the other side of the door. “Malcolm? It’s Charlotte. Let me in.”
Malcolm opens the door with the chain still in place. He holds his gun behind him so that Charlotte can’t see it.
“Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed Clare last night,” Charlotte says. “Then I followed you both here. I left, then came back. Can you let me in?”
“Are you alone?”
“Jesus. It’s five a.m. I’m alone.”
Malcolm twists to look back at Clare. He shakes his head, but Clare nods at him. Let her in. Malcolm closes the door and slides the chain unlocked, opening it enough for Charlotte to step into the room. The space feels instantly smaller with Charlotte there. She looks around, taking in the unkempt bed, the too-warm air.
“You said you worked for him,” Charlotte says to Clare.
“What are you doing here, Charlotte?” Malcolm asks.
But Charlotte ignores him, still addressing Clare. “I followed you after you left Austin’s house last night. I had this feeling. The way you were defending Malcolm. You spoke about him in the present tense. Like he was here.”
Suddenly Charlotte is crying, her face buried in her hands. “I haven’t seen you in almost two years, Malcolm. You left me here.”
“Left you? You accused me of killing your father, Charlotte. I had no choice but to leave.”
Charlotte looks at Clare, blank, lost.
“Zoe is here,” Malcolm says. “I believe she’s in Lune Bay.”
“I think she’s with my husband,” Clare says. “My ex-husband, Jason. I think they’re together.”
“No,” Charlotte says. “No.”
At this, Clare and Malcolm exchange a look.
“Malcolm,” Charlotte says. “I need to speak to you. There are things I need to tell you. Before this blows up. I need to talk to you privately.”
“We can speak here,” he says.
Charlotte is shaking. She clasps her hands together to mask it.
“Five minutes without her,” she says, gesturing to Clare. “I’m your family. You owe me that much.”
Again Malcolm looks at Clare. She nods.
“Okay,” he says.
Charlotte steps back out of the room. Malcolm goes to Clare and pulls her in to kiss her forehead. The act feels so intimate that Clare feels herself stiffen against it.
“I’ll be right outside,” he says.
When he closes the door behind him, Clare returns to the bed. She sits down again, then stands, pacing, her pulse too quick, her brain unable to compute fast enough. She watches the alarm on the bedside table, anxious. Two minutes. Three. Five. There is another knock.
Clare? She hears through the door. It’s Charlotte, again.
Clare stands to open the door. But as soon as she twists the door handle, she thinks better of it. No. What are you doing? Get your gun. Check the peephole. But the door is already open. Charlotte. Her expression is blank, ghostly.
“What do you need?” Clare asks.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte says flatly. “I’m sorry.”
Beyond Charlotte is a car, its headlights on. A woman is in the driver’s seat. A woman: Zoe.
No. Clare tries to slam the door but Charlotte stumbles into the room as if someone has pushed her from behind, knocking Clare off balance. The motel room door slams closed. He is here. Before Clare can scream he’s taken hold of her from behind, a hand gripped to her mouth. He has her in a bear hug. Clare presses backwards into his hold and lifts her legs in a flail. His gun goes off. There is a scream. Charlotte is on the floor next to the bed, holding her stomach, a look of terror on her face. Bleeding.
Clare opens her mouth, but only a gasp escapes. She writhes and jerks against his hold. Then something hits her. She feels it, the crack against her skull, a stab of warmth on the back of her head. Clare falls forward to the bed, crawling on all fours and then collapsing to her stomach. She looks up and tries to focus. No.
And then, nothing. The room blurs and fades to black.
Clare blinks and pats at the back of her head. Warmth. She looks down at her fingertips, red with her own blood.
Strange, she thinks. I feel no pain.
The room takes shape. She sits in a large bathtub empty of water, clothes on. The bathtub is in the center of the room. This bathroom: airy, too big, everything white, an open shower. The window over the
