Sun cascades through the skylight, whitewashing the stairs, pooling in the landing outside the kitchen. When I step into it, I feel spotlit.

Otherwise, the house is dark. I’ve drawn every curtain, closed every blind. The darkness is smoke-thick; I can almost smell it.

The final scene of Rope plays on the television. Two handsome young men, a murdered classmate, a corpse packed into an antique chest in the center of the parlor, and Jimmy Stewart again, all staged in what appears to be a single take (actually eight ten-minute segments stitched together, but the effect is pretty seamless, especially for 1948). “Cat and mouse, cat and mouse,” fumes Farley Granger, the net drawing tight around him, “but which is the cat and which is the mouse?” I say the words out loud.

My own cat is stretched along the back of the sofa, his tail switching like a charmed snake. He’s sprained his rear left paw; I found him limping this morning, badly. I’ve filled his bowl with a few days’ worth of food, just so he doesn’t—

The doorbell rings.

I jolt back into the cushions. My head twists toward the door.

Who the hell?

Not David; not Bina. Not Dr. Fielding, surely—he’s left several voicemails, but I doubt he’d show up unannounced. Unless he announced it in a voicemail I ignored.

The bell rings again. I pause the film, swing my feet to the floor, stand up. Walk to the intercom screen.

It’s Ethan. His hands are jammed in his pockets; a scarf is looped around his neck. His hair flames in the sunlight.

I push the speaker button. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.

“It’s okay,” he says.

I pause.

“It’s really cold,” he adds.

I press the buzzer.

A moment later he enters the living room, frigid air chasing him. “Thanks,” he huffs, his breath short. “So freezing out there.” He looks around. “It’s really dark in here.”

“That’s just because it’s so bright outside,” I say, but he’s right. I switch on the floor lamp.

“Should I open the blinds?”

“Sure. Actually, no, this is fine. Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he says.

I perch on the chaise. “Should I sit here?” asks Ethan, pointing to the sofa. Should I, should I. Very deferential, for a teenage boy.

“Sure.” He sits. Punch drops down the back of the sofa, quickly crawls beneath it.

Ethan scans the room. “Does that fireplace work?”

“It’s gas, but yes. Do you want me to turn it on?”

“No, just wondering.”

Silence.

“What are all these pills for?”

I snap my gaze to the coffee table, studded with pills; four canisters, one empty, stand together in a little plastic glade.

“I’m just counting them,” I explain. “Refills.”

“Oh, okay.”

More silence.

“I came over—” he begins, just as I say his name.

I steam ahead. “I’m so sorry.”

He cocks his head.

“I’m just so sorry.” Now he’s peering into his lap, but I press on. “For all the trouble, and for involving you. I—was so . . . sure. I was so sure that something was happening.”

He nods at the floor.

“I’ve had . . . it’s been a very hard year.” I close my eyes; when I open them again, I see that he’s looking at me, his eyes bright, searching.

“I lost my child and my husband.” Swallow. Say it. “They died. They’re dead.” Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four.

“And I started drinking. More than usual. And I self-medicated. Which is dangerous and wrong.” He’s watching me intently.

“It isn’t like—it’s not that I believed they were actually communicating with me—you know, from . . .”

“The other side,” he says, his voice low.

“Exactly.” I shift in my seat, lean forward. “I knew they were gone. Dead. But I liked hearing them. And feeling . . . It’s very tough to explain.”

“Like, connected?”

I nod. He’s such an unusual teenager.

“As for the rest—I don’t . . . I can’t even remember a lot of it. I guess I wanted to connect with other people. Or needed to.” My hair brushes my cheeks as I shake my head. “I don’t understand it.” I look directly at him. “But I’m very sorry.” I clear my throat, straighten up. “I know you didn’t come over here to see an adult cry.”

“I’ve cried in front of you,” he points out.

I smile. “Fair enough.”

“I borrowed your movie, remember?” He slides a slipcase from his coat pocket, places it on the coffee table. Night Must Fall. I’d forgotten about that.

“Were you able to watch it?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

“Creepy. That guy.”

“Robert Montgomery.”

“Was he Danny?”

“Yes.”

“Really creepy. I like the part where he asks the girl—uh . . .”

“Rosalind Russell.”

“Was she Olivia?”

“Yes.”

“Where he asks her if she likes him, and she’s like, no, and he’s like, ‘Everybody else does.’” He giggles. I grin.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yeah.”

“Black-and-white’s not so bad.”

“No, it was fine.”

“You’re welcome to borrow anything you like.”

“Thanks.”

“But I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents.” Now he looks away, studies the grate. “I know they’re furious,” I continue.

A quiet snort. “They’ve got their own issues.” Eyes back on me. “They’re really difficult to live with. Like, super-difficult.”

“I think a lot of young people feel that way about their parents.”

“No, but they really are.”

I nod.

“I can’t wait to go to college,” he says. “Two more years. Not even.”

“Do you know where you want to go?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Someplace far away.” He hooks his arm behind himself, scratches his back. “It’s not like I have friends here anyway.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Boyfriend?”

He looks at me, surprised. Shrugs. “I’m figuring things out,” he explains.

“Fair enough.” I wonder if his parents know.

The grandfather clock booms once, twice, three times, four.

“You know,” I say, “the apartment downstairs is empty.”

Ethan frowns. “What happened to that guy?”

“He left.” I clear my throat again. “But—so if you want, you can use it. The space. I know what it’s like to need your own space.”

Am I trying to get back at Alistair and Jane? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. But it might be nice—it would be nice, I’m sure—to have someone else here. A young person, no less, even if he’s a lonely teenager.

I go on, as though it’s a sales pitch: “There’s no TV, but I can give you the Wi-Fi password. And there’s a couch in there.” I’m talking brightly, convincing myself. “It could just be a place for you to get away to if things are hard at home.”

He stares. “That’d be awesome.”

I’m on my feet before he can change his mind. David’s key is on the kitchen counter, a little shard of silver in the dim light. I palm it, present it to Ethan, who stands.

“Awesome,” he repeats, tucking it into his pocket.

“Come over anytime,” I tell him.

He glances at the door. “I should probably get home.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks for—” He pats his pocket. “And for the movie.”

“You’re welcome.” I follow him to the hall.

Before leaving, he turns, waves at the sofa—“Little guy’s shy today,” he says—and gazes at me. “I got a phone,” he announces proudly.

“Congratulations.”

“Want to see it?”

“Sure.”

He produces a scuffed iPhone. “It’s secondhand, but still.”

“It’s awesome.”

“What generation is yours?”

“I have no idea. What’s yours?”

“Six. Almost the newest.”

“Well, it’s awesome. I’m glad you have a phone.”

“I put your number in. Do you want mine?”

“Your number?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” He taps the screen, and I feel my phone buzz in the depths of my robe. “Now you’ve got it,” he explains, hanging up.

“Thank you.”

He reaches for the doorknob, then drops his hand, looks at me, suddenly serious.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” he says, and his voice is so soft that my throat constricts.

I nod.

He leaves. I lock the door behind him.

I float back to the sofa and look at the coffee table, at the pills dotting it like stars. I reach out, clasp the remote in my hand. Resume the film.

“To tell you the truth,” says Jimmy Stewart, “it really scares me a little.”