Francesca

I OPEN THE DOOR TO the Hutch with my master key. I don't think I have much time; she'll have realized by now that I haven't showed. Still, I pause on the threshold as I experience a strange frisson of energy. I'm particularly receptive to such things (it's both my gift and my curse) and there's a powerful essence of her here, though she's only been here twenty-four hours. I can sense her in the air, in all the possessions scattered about the room. I glide to the bed and pick up one of her pillows. Inhale. I'm half surprised not to smell the sickly sweet aroma of Tommy Girl.

I cast an eye around the room. It's really rather untidy in here. Shows a certain lack of respect for the gorgeous design I put so much personal thought into. But perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. She's been my guest before—and showed the same lack of gratitude back then.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for but I am certain I'll know when I find it. I open the wardrobe and find a row of clear garment bags from a designer rental company. Just like Sparrow to disguise herself in the clothes of another life. That's what she was back then. A little colorless cipher, living vicariously through others. A parasitic little hermit crab, borrowing another's shell.

It was an act of charity, all those years ago, inviting her here. To share a little of what I had with that ungainly creature on the beach. To see whether I could make something of her. Transform her. It turns out, just as Granmama used to say, you really can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

In the chest of drawers (the underwear, as expected, cheap and graying) I find a little stash of clippings about me, about The Manor. This is no surprise either. I always knew she was obsessed with me, my life. Covetous. Of course that's what happens when you radiate something that others want. It's a shame. It could have been such a beautiful thing, our friendship. But some people can be so ungrateful. As I say, I'm a giver by nature, so it's very easy for me to get taken advantage of—

Gosh. I do love these images of Owen and me, though, in the ELLE Wedding profile. We are so perfectly matched. He's obsessed with me too, of course—but in the best possible way.

I search through the minibar fridge. I peer under the bed. I look through her toiletries in the bathroom (nasty, chemical-laden stuff). And then, coming back into the main room, I notice the little safe in its recess in the wall. I don't think there are any valuables in there because I've already found her wallet and some (cheap) jewelry.

I try a couple of codes at random—neither of them works. I close my eyes and try to manifest the number behind my eyelids but there's just too much interference in my head to connect with my deeper knowledge in the way the guru I used to see taught me.

I pace the room for a few minutes. I could take the safe with me—it's not too heavy to carry away. I think we have a master key somewhere, in case a guest forgets the code they've put in. Michelle will know.

And then something occurs to me. Perhaps my powers of manifestation have worked after all. A date, fifteen years in the past. I punch in the numbers, press the key icon and the little light blinks green.

My fingers seem uncharacteristically clumsy as I try to open the door.

In the dim light the safe looks empty at first. If there's anything in there it must be small. I reach a hand inside. My fingers close around something squarish, metallic. I draw it out. Stare at it for a moment. It's a pink iPod, headphones plugged in.

I fit the headphones and press play as the words of "A Forest" seep into my ears. Lyrics about hearing voices in the dark, getting lost in the trees...

I stab the stop button. I don't need to hear any more. A memory of lying by the pool, listening to The Cure with her, an earphone each. (See: I shared everything with her!) But somehow I don't think that's the cozy memory she's trying to conjure. She's sending a message. It's about what happened.

For a moment the iPod trembles violently in my hand. And then, with an effort of will, I manage to still it. I am in control here. Just as I ever was. It takes more than this to frighten me.

Granmama, a keen gardener, always told me that if you want to get rid of a weed you have to pull it or burn it out by the roots. Expunge it entirely. I touch the black opal set into my ring. This time I can feel its power seeping into me, strengthening me.

I hate confrontation, but one must make exceptions at times. After all, self-protection is a manifestation of self-love. And self-love is so important. You have to love yourself before others. I know what I have to do.

I sit down at the little dressing table. Catch sight of myself in the mirror. I smile.

A FEW MINUTES later I step back into the apartment. Being in her space has drained me and I'm hungry for Owen. I need to nourish my soul with the warmth of another body, to join my essence with another. To lose myself in physicality, in carnality. I need a release.

In the dark bedroom I lie down and slide a hand across his side of the bed.

"Hello, beloved," I whisper. But my fingers encounter only space, the coldness of the slightly rumpled sheet, the dip in the mattress where his body lay.

Well, that's interesting. It wouldn't be the first time he's gone off on night-time wanderings. I know (because I've watched him via the feeds) that sometimes he goes and sits in the walled garden and has a secret middle-of-the-night smoke. Sometimes he simply wanders around the grounds, restless soul that he is. But now, unsettled by the events of the night, I have a sudden desire to know his exact location.

I open my laptop and scroll quickly through the feeds. There's the deserted courtyard, the walled garden luminescent in the light of the moon, the indoor bar, the wine store, the—

Wait.

What?

I flick back to the feed from the wine store. It looks like...

I zoom in. It's rather unfocused at this magnification. And yet I don't need perfect clarity to understand the pose of the two figures. And to know the second figure by the bright blur of her hair. Even at this level of pixelation I'd know a high street dye job from fifty paces.

White cold fury surges through me so powerfully that it feels almost invigorating, cleansing—an Ayahuasca-like transcendental, elemental rush. I am left trembling in the wake of it.

I suddenly remember the Japanese knife I took with me to Sparrow's Hutch. I slip it from its silicone cover and, gliding swiftly into the bedroom, I raise it high above my head (for a moment I have a rather pleasing image of myself as some ancient priestess performing an important ceremonial role) and then I plunge it into the pillow on Owen's side of the bed. I revel in the sound of rending material, in the sensation of the blade plowing through the soft innards as white feathers explode from the fabric in clouds. I lose myself in it. I am euphoric, almost, transported. I am breathing in hard animal grunts, I am sweating, I am alive, oh so alive.

Yes. Yes. This. This is the release I needed. More powerful, really, than any orgasm. Because when you've behaved for this long, it feels so good to be a little bad.