Chapter 44

Darkness, indeed. And it goes on forever.

She swims up from the depths, arriving at the surface of consciousness with the same necessity for air she’d had after being buried alive. Every muscle, every tendon, every cell in her body thrums with pain, screams—desperately, hollowly—to be allowed to rest. Despite this marrow-deep exhaustion, she’s returned, delivered back to the crypt of her body. Back to the catacombs, with no knowledge of how to escape, no inkling as to which passage, which ceilinged archway, Emmit manipulated to take leave of her once more. She’s left with nothing. Hopeless. Helpless.

No, not left with nothing: there’s the tote Emmit threw at her before he left. She gropes until she finds the canvas straps. Inside is her flashlight, the same heavy metal one she’s had all along. Might Emmit have replaced the batteries? There’s no way to tell, but when she pushes the button, the beam comes to life. Ignoring the pain in her chest, she aims the flashlight into the tote.

At first, she sees only the water. Two bottles of it, the first of which she makes short work. She guzzles, but her stomach protests, the muscles cramping violently. She vomits, furious with herself for wasting such a precious commodity. She opens the second bottle, dizzy with the effort, and sips it slowly, one sip for every handful of minutes that pass. When her lightheadedness—if not her chest pain—lessens some, she returns to the tote.

The idea of food nauseates her. Not a heart attack, huh? she thinks bitterly. Just a little bout of anxiety that’s making me not want to eat, though I’ve had nothing for who knows how many days? If she had to guess, she’d say it’s been three days. But less time could have passed ... or more.

Despite the intellectual knowledge of it, the certainty that she has, in fact, suffered a heart attack, she struggles to come to terms with it, this calamity she’s worked to avoid the entirety of her adult life coming to pass. She tries to recall whether her cardiologist ever dispensed any advice should she think she was experiencing a heart attack, but, of course, it was only ever Get yourself to the nearest emergency room immediately. She wonders how long she has. Wonders if antidepressant withdrawal is exacerbating her weakened condition.

She forces herself to eat a handful of soda crackers—chewing slowly and methodically—and is surprised to discover she feels a bit better. Enough to continue riffling through the tote, slipping her hand into every crevice. Emmit clearly took pains to make sure there wasn’t so much as a wayward pen left inside. There are the clothes, however; and they are hers —no more ridiculous, flowing white Victorian-era garb.

She peels the filthy garment over her head and dresses in the underwear, bra, soft black leggings, and black sweatshirt. By the time she’s done, she is panting, sweat dampening her hair and neck. The walls of the catacomb swim before her, and she reaches out, but there’s nothing to grab on to. She drops to her hands and knees, sucking in breath as if she’s just cleared the finish line of a marathon.

A minute passes. Then another. Finally, Saoirse feels she can climb to her feet. She keeps her muscles taut despite the effort, afraid her legs will buckle and send her careening back to the ground.

As she stands, arms by her sides, spine rigid, the fingers of her right hand discern a small lump in the fabric of her leggings, near the midway point of her thigh. Her soft black leggings. Her favorite pair. They have a pocket meant to conceal a credit card or a house key on a jog. Please be something I can use. The object is long, like the pen she’d wished had been in her tote.

Saoirse slips her hand into the pocket and pulls out what’s inside. She stares at the object, sure it’s a joke. A mirage. What she holds is a syringe. A syringe of Pluto’s insulin. A medication equally deadly to feline or human, when administered to someone without diabetes.

Saoirse drops to her knees again, keeping the syringe upright as she does. She’d been wearing these leggings when she’d last tested Pluto’s blood sugar, after the breakup with Emmit and before she’d turned in for the night. Emmit had missed the thin cylinder when he’d scooped the leggings up from the floor and thrown them into the bag.

Saoirse chuckles, then cackles, unconcerned with what the laughter might be doing to her heart. She thinks of the unnamed narrator of “The Black Cat,” brought to ruin by the eponymous Pluto, driven to madness as effectively as if by a beating heart beneath a floorboard. After ensuring the needle’s cap is clamped tight, she returns the syringe to her pocket.

Armed with this new secret, she sips her water and nibbles crackers.

And, like a writer mapping an upcoming scene, she plans.