KATRINA

Katrina

THE DAY OF

I hadn't gone back to lock the door after Janine left. Otherwise, Cleo would have had to ring the bell—she never remembers her keys.

"Hey!" I called out when I heard the front door open. "Perfect timing!"

Cleo didn't answer. And I couldn't see her from where I was on the far side of the kitchen island. Taking off her shoes in the vestibule, headphones on probably—they'd been surgically implanted in her ears since she turned twelve. All the times I yelled at her to take them off. I worried about her hearing going; I worried about her getting hit in a crosswalk; I worried about her being one of those rude and obnoxious teens. What a waste of time. I'd worried so much, about all the wrong things.

I put the knife down and wiped my hands on a towel. As excited as I was to see Cleo, I knew we had a hard conversation in front of us.

I headed around the island and toward the door.

"Cleo, what's taking you so—"

I froze. Not Cleo. A tall figure. A man. An unfamiliar man.

"Hey!" I shouted, backing up. "Get out! This is my house!"

But the man didn't move. Not toward me. And not toward the door. He was turned to the side and the vestibule light was off. I couldn't see his face clearly. I didn't recognize him.

But then I did.

My phone. On the island. I lunged for it with shaking hands.

"Put down the phone, Katrina," the man said calmly. "If I have to hurt you, when Cleo gets here, I'll have to hurt her, too."

I ended the call as the 911 operator picked up. My whole body was trembling.

"It is a very beautiful house," he said. His voice. It was like fire in my bones. "You have good taste, especially considering where you came from. But then I guess all the money you were given helps. Not all of us got so lucky."

And with that he stepped forward, so that I could see him more clearly: longish salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, and his bright blue eyes. Electric. That's what they were. And I knew them. I did. All these years later, those eyes were exactly the same. Impossibly blue. And now utterly dead.

But Reed was dead. I had killed him. I'd stabbed him in the neck. Not intentionally maybe, but I'd done it. I'd seen his lifeless body on the stairs when he'd collapsed chasing after me. And yet here he was, standing in my house.

Run, I thought. He's going to kill you.

But I couldn't move. And there was no way out anyway. I was trapped.

"You thought I was dead, I know," Reed said, smirking. He was still very attractive in that way he had always been, beautiful really—those eyes. And all that confidence. "I lost a lot of blood, so much blood, right? The lady who owned the house would not stop screaming. That's the last thing I remember before I lost consciousness." His laugh had a bitter tinge to it. "Anyway, it was touch and go there for a while, but in the end no permanent damage. Apart from this—" He lifts his hair to reveal the back of his neck. "Nasty scar. But I'm lucky with the hair. It's made it easy to hide."

The texts had been from him. Reed. The boy I killed. Still alive after all this time.

And Cleo. Now he was threatening Cleo.

"Stay away from my daughter." I didn't recognize my own voice, it was so deep and fierce.

"Bit late for that," he said with a lopsided grin. "Cleo and Professor William Butler—I so wanted to go with the Yeats also, but, you know, there was no way … Anyway, Cleo and Professor Butler have been having a very good time together."

The new boyfriend. Breathe. I had to keep breathing. I had to stay focused—Cleo would be here any minute.

"What do you want?"

"Well, let's see," he spat out. "I want my fucking future back. I'm a fifty-one-year-old assistant professor at NYU. I'd have been tenured at Harvard fifteen years ago if it weren't for you. You cost me everything—money, success, happiness. You cost me everything I deserved. You owe me."

"I defended myself."

"You know, it's funny how similar you and Cleo are," he went on, smiling suggestively. "In nearly every way."

Kill him. I am going to kill him.

The knife. I glanced toward the island. But Reed snatched it up, inspected the blade, then pointed it in my direction.

"Can't have this getting into the wrong hands, can we?" He held the knife, point down, grinding it into the marble. Then he motioned for my phone. "Give that to me, too." I handed it over, and he tucked it into his jacket pocket. "I ended up having to leave Yale, you know. After I got out of the hospital, Director Daitch made that very clear to me. My choices were leave New Haven or get sent to jail. Even though you and I both know you wanted it that night."

"You drugged me. You raped me." The words burned coming out of my mouth. I'd never said them out loud.

"Right, rape, sure," he said. "What, exactly, did you think was going to happen coming over that night? You knew. You knew exactly. And you wanted it. You just felt bad about it after so you attacked me like some kind of insane animal."

I hated the way it felt. Like he was right. Like I was to blame. For liking a boy who was that much older. For wanting so desperately for him to like me back. For someone to. Even though all I'd done was sneak out and go over to his house. I drank a cup of peppermint tea at eight o'clock at night.

Then blackness. The rest was only flashes. Like the lights going on and off. Or the scenes of a relived nightmare. My body being yanked this way and that—arms, legs. Like a rag doll. Panting in my ear. Sweat. The sound of my one "no"—only one, but loud and clear. Like a punch into the air.

Some days it felt like that sound still lived inside me—an endless primal howl.

And then, when I woke up hours later, my mouth so dry, it felt like my skin was tearing when I opened my lips to drink from the bathroom sink. The pain between my legs. The dried blood on my thighs. I was naked except for my gauzy pink top.

Back in Reed's room, I tried not to wake him as I tugged on my underwear and my jeans next to the bed. It was late, past midnight. He opened his eyes as I was lacing up my first sneaker.

"Where you going?" he'd asked, sleepy, playful.

"Just … home."

"What's the matter?" He sounded grumpy now.

"Nothing, I need to go." But my voice sounded like something was very wrong. I couldn't help it. "They'll notice I'm gone."

Reed sat up as I focused on tying my sneakers. Then he reached out and grabbed my thigh, hard.

"Don't get confused here," he'd said. "About what happened."

I'd tried to pull my leg away, but he squeezed it tighter. "You're hurting me."

"Tell me you understand."

"Let me go."

"I will when you say you understand: We were having fun."

And then I saw the little knife next to the lime on his nightstand. The one he must have sliced up for a drink, or maybe to stick in the top of a beer. Maybe to celebrate while I was passed out cold.

"Let me go."

And he did. His hand dropped from my leg. Maybe I could have even run then. Maybe I could have gotten away. Maybe.

"Stop being such a fucking bitch and—"

I grabbed the knife. Reed laughed and reached to grab it back. I swung for his arm. To stop him from touching me again. But when he lunged toward me, the knife ended up in the back of his neck. There was this slow-motion moment when we both realized what I'd done. I watched his face fall. And then all that blood.

But now here he was all these years later, in my kitchen. Furious. Cleo. Reed was still ranting about something. It seemed like he had been ranting for a while.

"My parents cut me off. Completely. No money. No contact. Nothing. Because they wanted an explanation for my dropping out of Yale, and I couldn't give one. Even wrote me out of their will. I mean, they were always assholes—they went away to Paris for Christmas that last year, alone. Left me to fend for myself for the holiday, when I was only a sophomore in college. Without their money, I had to get a job waiting tables and finish up at Fairfield University—at night," he said. " Fairfield University. Do you have any idea how long it took for me to claw my way back?" He was pointing the knife at my face now.

He was going to kill me. I felt sure he was going to try. I needed to get him talking, distracted. I needed to buy myself time.

"You seem like you're doing all right," I said. "Professor at NYU?"

He began to pace, gesticulating with the knife in his hand. " Assistant professor." The cords in his neck strained. His face was flushed. "Do you know where I'd be right now if it weren't for you? I was derailed for years. I killed it at Fairfield University, obviously. Eventually, got my master's at a piece of shit state school that was basically free—but not my Ph.D., at Rutgers. That was on me, again. Then it was years and years of crap adjunct positions at Dumbass Community College and Blue-Collar State. And God forbid some girl makes some shit up about you at one of those places—you're out, no questions asked. In the Ivy League, no one cares who you fuck!" He stopped pacing and turned to look at me. He was smiling now. "But I guess there was one big consolation prize. Who would have thought I'd look up during my very first lecture at NYU, my first real job, and see … you ? The person who ruined my life. God, for a minute I thought I was going crazy. That Cleo really was you. You two look exactly the same. Exactly. And to be clear, it's not like I was obsessing about you all these years or something. Don't flatter yourself. I've had far better things to do with my time. I looked you up, once or twice over the years, sure. But there was nothing. You were a ghost. Then when I looked her up, Cleo McHugh … boom, there you were with your good-looking husband and your fancy job and your brand-new married name."

"What do you want, Reed?"

"What do I want ?" He laughed. "I want you to make me whole. Give me the money. Three million dollars."

"Three million dollars?"

"I know you have it. The court filings? When those relatives contested Gladys Greene's will? They laid out all the details. Like I said, I spent some time googling you after I recognized Cleo. It was all right there," he said. "I'm willing to bet you still have most of it. Somebody like you, coming from where you did—you've probably got it all squirreled away."

He wasn't wrong. And money was easy. Money I could do.

"You want money?"

"Sure," Reed said, but the hatred in his eyes told me this wasn't going to be that simple. "And I want you to know how much I enjoyed fucking your daughter. She was very … enthusiastic."

I closed my eyes. It took everything in me not to lunge at him. But he'd use that knife on me. Happily. Maybe that was what he really wanted—an excuse.

"Fine, I'll give you the money right now. I'll wire it to you. The whole three million. But then you'll go. Never talk to Cleo again. Never come near me."

"You think you're really in a position to negotiate?"

I wasn't, of course.

"You want the money?" I asked. "Then you need me."

Reed walked the perimeter of my office, inspecting my books and our family photographs like he was gathering ammunition, as I stood behind my desk and typed as quickly as I could on my work laptop, not easy with my hands shaking. It was 6:15 p.m. Cleo could be there any minute. Reed could be planning on killing me, after I gave him the money. But I needed to at least try to get him out of there before Cleo arrived.

When my account finally opened on the screen, I could only stare. The balance read $53,297. I clicked back to the home page, hoping that I'd missed something. I considered firing up the desktop to see if it would give me a different result.

"There a problem?" Reed asked.

"There is … Money is missing from my account," I said. "I don't know what's going on. But you can see for yourself." I gestured to the computer.

He stayed where he was. "Find that fucking money right now. Or this is not going to end well."

I thought then of the crumpled piece of paper on the floor. Aidan. He went in and took the money, leaving me standing here as usual, holding the bag.

"I can't find it." I pointed at the screen again. "It's gone. My ex-husband must have emptied the account. We're in the middle of a divorce."

"Find it," he repeated, turning the knife in his hand as he stepped closer. There was something like delight in his eyes. Of course, this was why he was really here. For revenge, not money. But he wanted an excuse, a struggle. He wanted to hurt me and to be able to tell himself I asked for it.

Run . I have to run.

But he was blocking the path to the door. "I'll talk to Aidan. I'll get the money back and give it to you."

"Sure. Maybe we can talk to Cleo about it when she gets here." He changed his grip and raised the knife.

Cleo. All I could think about was all the little things I'd done to make her feel safe over the years. How pointless they were now. I thought of her small—two or three—new to a big-girl bed. How I'd snuggle in next to her when I got home from work. If she was still awake, I would read to her— Goodnight Moon always. If she was asleep, I'd sing quietly, "Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird," hoping she could hear me in her sleep. And always when I was done, she would reach over and squeeze my hand and say, "Stay, Mommy. Stay until it's light."

In one quick motion, I slammed my laptop shut, flipped it on its side, and cracked it down against his elbow.

"Fuck!" he shouted, bending over in pain.

I sprinted past him and for the door. Ran as fast I could down the hall, blood pumping in my ears. Don't look back. Almost there. Run out and scream "Fire!" Before Reed's pounding feet could catch up to me.

But at the kitchen island, I was jerked back. An arm around my neck. Windmilled my arms through space. Trying to stop myself. But there was nothing.

Only air.

Through my fingers. Emptiness in my closed fists. The sound of shattering glass. Then my head. Cracking down hard. The soft part of my temple, against stone. My brain vibrating. A giant bell inside my skull. There was something warm and wet on my face, burning in my eyes. But no pain.

I'm okay. I'm going to be—