I know the voice.

The blade trembles in my hand as I make my way down the stairs, carefully, the banister smooth beneath my palm. I hear my breath. I hear my footsteps.

“That’s right. Quicker, please.”

I reach the floor, hover just outside the doorway. Inhale so deep that I cough, splutter. I try to muffle it, even though he knows I’m here.

“Come on in.”

I come on in.

Moonlight floods the kitchen, paving the countertops silver, filling the empty bottles by the window. The faucet gleams; the sink is a bright basin. Even the hardwood shines.

He’s leaning against the island, a silhouette in the white light, shadow-flat. Rubble glitters at his feet: shards and curls of glass sprayed across the floor. On the countertop beside him stands a skyline of bottles and glasses, brimming with the moon.

“Sorry for . . .”—he sweeps his arm around the room—“the mess. I didn’t want to have to go upstairs.”

I say nothing, but flex my fingers around the handle of the box cutter.

“I’ve been patient, Mrs. Fox.” Alistair sighs, turning his head to the side, so that I can see his profile edged with light: the high forehead, the steep nose. “Dr. Fox. Whatever you . . . call yourself.” His words drip with booze. He’s very drunk, I realize.

“I’ve been patient,” he repeats. “I’ve put up with a lot.” He sniffs, selects a tumbler, rolls it between his palms. “We all have, but especially me.” Now I can see him more clearly; his jacket is zippered to the collar, and he’s wearing dark gloves. My throat tightens.

Still I don’t respond. Instead I move to the light switch, reach for it.

Glass explodes inches from my outstretched hand. I jump back. “Keep the fucking lights off,” he barks.

I stand still, my fingers wrapped around the doorframe.

“Someone should’ve warned us about you.” He’s shaking his head, laughing.

I swallow. His laugh gutters, dies.

“You gave my son the key to your apartment.” He holds it up. “I’m returning it.” The key chinks as he drops it on the island. “Even if you weren’t out of your . . . goddamn mind, I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman.”

“I’ll call the police,” I whisper.

He snorts. “Go ahead. Here’s your phone.” He picks it up off the counter, tosses it in his hand, once, twice.

Yes—I left it in the kitchen. And for an instant I wait for him to dash it to the floor, to hurl it against the wall; but instead he sets it back down beside the key. “The police think you’re a joke,” he says, taking a step toward me. I raise the box cutter.

“Oh!” He’s grinning. “Oh! What do you want to do with that?” Again he steps forward.

This time so do I.

“Get out of my house,” I tell him. My arm wobbles; my hand is shaking. The blade gleams in the light, a little slice of silver.

He’s stopped moving, stopped breathing.

“Who was that woman?” I ask.

And suddenly his hand lunges for my throat, seizes it. Drives me backward, so that I thud against the wall, my head cracking hard. I cry out. His fingers press into my skin.

“You’re delusional.” His breath, hot with liquor, flames against my face, stings my eyes. “Stay away from my son. Stay away from my wife.”

I’m gagging, rasping. With one hand I claw at his fingers, rake my nails across his wrist.

With the other I swing the blade toward his side.

But my aim sails wide, and the box cutter clatters to the floor. He steps on it, squeezes my throat. I croak.

“Stay the fuck away from all of us,” he breathes.

A moment passes.

Another.

My vision runs. Tears are leaking down my cheeks.

I’m losing conscious—

He releases my neck. I slide to the floor, gasping.

Now he towers above me. He drags his foot back sharply, sends the box cutter skidding into a corner.

“Remember this,” he says, panting, his voice ragged. I can’t look up at him.

But I hear him say one more word, small, breakably soft: “Please.”

Silence. I watch his booted feet turn, step away.

As he passes the island, he sweeps his arm across it. A wave of glass crashes to the floor, splintering, smashing. I try to scream. My throat whistles.

He walks to the hall door, rips it open. I hear the front door unlatch, slam shut.

I hold myself, one hand touching my neck, the other clutching my body. I’m sobbing.

And when Punch limps through the doorway and gingerly licks my hand, I only sob harder.