Yes, Clare thinks. This place. Of course. I know where I am. This is Malcolm and Zoe’s house.
The pain comes, her skull throbbing. Clare leans back against the tub and closes her eyes to stave off the dizzy spell. She remembers. She was trying to scramble away. It was a strike to the head.
Voices. Clare cannot decipher how many she can hear outside the bathroom door. She works to pull herself up so she is sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Two voices. A man and a woman. The man’s voice is so acutely familiar that it brings a stabbing pain to Clare’s chest. Jason. He’s here. Of course he’s here. And Zoe. They are here together.
Malcolm, Clare thinks. Where is Malcolm?
A small laugh escapes her. This is what you get, Clare thinks. After everything that’s happened, everything you’ve done, this is how it ends.
The bathroom door cracks open. Clare stands, still in the bathtub. She must steady herself.
“Clare,” he says, pressing through the half-open door. “Clare?”
Jason. In front of her. Clare squeezes her eyes closed and then pops them open to regain her focus. He is smiling too kindly. He holds a gun loose in one hand. Clare sees the streak of blood across its barrel. Her blood. Or Malcolm’s?
“Are you hurt?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He looks different. He’s grown a beard, put on some weight. Something else too—a deadness in his gaze. Jason steps forward and reaches out to take her by the arm. When Clare recoils, he frowns playfully.
“Don’t do that, Clare. You’ve got nowhere to go. This is finally over. I’m here.”
It comes back to Clare now. This morning, dawn. Malcolm. The motel.
Where’s Malcolm? Clare wants to ask. But that familiar instinct stops her. She knows the rage Malcolm’s name might stir in Jason.
“Where’s Charlotte?” she asks instead.
“Oh wow,” Jason says, ignoring the question, reaching for her hair. “You’re still bleeding.”
“Don’t touch me,” Clare says, a hiss.
“Come on,” he says. “This doesn’t have to end badly, does it? You can behave.”
“Who else is here?” Clare asks. “Who’s here with you?”
But she need not ask. She knows. The blood drips from her hair and travels in a stream down her spine. It takes all her effort not to sway. Clare closes her eyes again. She must find a way out.
“You owe me the truth,” Jason says. “Don’t I deserve the truth?”
The truth? Clare cannot speak. They will not let her out of here alive. She needs to focus. Focus. But she is dizzy. Her thoughts churn too quickly. The truth. He smiles at her. Anger roils in her instead of fear.
“Let me get you something for the bleeding,” he says.
When Jason steps out and closes the bathroom door behind him, Clare stands frozen, listening. She hears him say something. To whom? She hears a door open and close. Clare grips the sides of the tub and steps out onto the tiled floor. She opens the door. The sunlight in the master bedroom shocks her, the wall of glass. Clare squints against the light in her eyes. She moves to the bed to sit, gather herself. She needs to think.
The motel room. Dawn. Jason struck her unconscious in the motel room. And then? There’d been a drive, Clare in the backseat with Jason, in and out of consciousness. Zoe was driving. Where was Malcolm? What did they do to Malcolm? Clare stands again and props herself up along the glass window to reach the dressing table. She leans into her reflection. Her hair is matted with blood. Her pupils are dilated. The wooziness is not just from the blow to the head. They must have given her something. Sedated her.
Get a grip, Clare mouths to her own reflection. You find a way out of this, or else you die.
When a surge of energy finally comes, Clare moves to the door and finds it locked. How can it be locked from the outside? She tries the large windows, locked too.
“Fuck,” Clare says, fist to the window’s glass. A sob rises in her throat. Where is Malcolm?
“Hi,” says a voice behind her.
Clare spins. Zoe. She has closed the bedroom door behind her. She points the gun at Clare. The same blood-spattered gun that Jason just held. They may only have one gun between them.
“You can’t keep me here,” Clare says.
“Sit,” Zoe says, pointing to the bed. “You’re a little unsteady.”
Clare obeys, retaking her spot on the edge of the bed. Zoe plops into the armchair by the door.
“Where did Jason go?”
Zoe waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, God. Who knows? He hasn’t been the most reliable partner. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed either. Kind of disappointing, actually.”
Partner? In broad daylight, Clare sees Zoe truly for the first time. Malcolm’s wife: Zoe Westman. Her hair has been cut to a bob, curly and dark just like Clare’s. For two months this woman has been at the heart of the mystery behind Malcolm. His missing wife. And now she is here, and her smile is cold. The handgun rests in the triangle formed by her legs crossed on the armchair.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” Zoe says.
“You can’t keep me here,” Clare repeats, standing.
“Relax.” Zoe lifts the gun and motions to the bed. “And sit the fuck down.”
Clare does as she’s told. Her brain is scrambled, slow. She knows this feeling too well. She must work against it. Clare faces Zoe dead-on, her posture straight, her hands spread on her legs.
“What do you want?” Clare asks.
“Malcolm likes you,” Zoe says.
“No,” Clare says. “He hired me. He was looking for you.”
Zoe throws her head back in laughter. Her neck is thin, pale, her fingers long and curled around the gun. Clare notices that Zoe still wears a simple wedding band on
