The question, the implication, hung between us, unanswered.

She turned to the window and said, “We could still leave, you know. The two of us, together. We could go to Spain. To Paris.” She paused, turning to look at me slowly, so that I could hear the rustle of her trousers as she moved. “It’s not too late. This doesn’t have to be the end.”

I could see it—the desperation glinting in her eyes. And part of me, though I knew it was absurd, that it was wrong, wanted to say yes. It would be easier to close my eyes and give in, to close the distance between us and leave this nightmare behind. And perhaps she sensed it too, this relenting, for she reached out, as if to touch me. But then I thought of Tom, of John, of what she had most likely—No, I whispered fiercely to myself, had absolutely done—and I felt myself pale. I knocked her hand away with a force that surprised us both. I could see it—the shock, the disappointment, and yes, the anger. “You can’t blackmail me into loving you, Lucy,” I spat, unable to stop myself. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Her face froze, so that it seemed as though her features were contracting, shrinking. And then, through the darkness, I saw the start of a smile beginning at one corner of her mouth. It seemed like her lips were tilted, jerked upward. The look of a cat toying with a mouse.

My skin began to itch, knowing that something was about to happen, sensing, already, the danger in her next words.

“When will you tell the police?” she asked.

I grew still.

“About what you know.”

“What do I know?” I whispered, trying to ignore the trembling of my body.

A smile now—a real, genuine one that could not be hidden. “About Sabine.”

I placed my arms around my waist. I did not want to be there any longer. Not in that room, not in Tangier, not anywhere on the continent of Africa. It was not my home. It had never been my home. All I had done was create an enclosure that I had trapped myself within. I had created the lock and I had given Lucy the key. My stomach lurched and I thought for a moment that I would be sick, there, in the living room, surrounded by John’s things and Lucy’s Cheshire grin.

“Sabine?” I repeated.

“Yes.” She turned. “The police will want to know about what happened that day, at Café Hafa.”

I could feel it then, could feel myself contracting, could feel myself stalling in terror—no, not terror, horror. I remembered that day, the woman, the shattered glass—the blood on the stairs glistening underneath the afternoon sun. The conviction that she was somehow familiar, though I could not place her, but then, of course, I could—the image of her face from that first night, those seconds before I had fainted, the truth of John, of our relationship, laid bare. I could not move, could not speak. I stood there, frozen.

“What are you talking about, Lucy?”

She let out a small laugh. “Alice. I know you pushed her.”

I could feel my blood rushing, could hear the noise whooshing through my ears, pulsing against my eardrums. “I didn’t, Lucy. I didn’t push that woman.”

“You mean Sabine?” she asked.

My stomach dropped at the mention of her name, but I forced the panic down.

I had puzzled over that day already, wondering at what had happened a dozen or so times, never arriving at any explanation. I had seen it play out in my mind, over and over, sometimes imagining that I saw her face in the moments before she fell, the look of terror that shrouded her features, knowing what was happening and unable to stop it. Had I relished it? I wondered, trying to conjure up that feeling again, knowing somehow that I had realized who she was, even then. I looked at Lucy and I fought for words that would not come.

“I don’t blame you, Alice,” she said, moving away from the window. “I would have done the same. After all, when someone betrays you like that . . .” she said, letting her words trail off, her eyes glowing in the darkness.

I felt my pulse quicken, felt the shadows in the corners begin to grow.

“I’m headed to bed now,” I said, feeling my voice as it reverberated throughout my body. “I’m afraid I have a terrible headache.”

That night I locked the door to my bedroom. I pushed and pulled the heavy wooden dresser from its regular place beside the door, listening with satisfaction as its wooden legs scraped and scratched at the floorboards beneath, thinking about the absurdity of the situation, of the circularity of the whole wretched thing. It took me the better part of an hour—pushing and pulling—but I did not stop, not until at last it formed a barrier, a divide between my room and the hallway, between Lucy and me. I looked down—deep rivulets were now carved into the floorboards beneath. I was glad for the marks, for the permanency of my actions, a record of my resistance. I would show them to Aunt Maude when she arrived, so that she could see everything I had done in order to free myself from Lucy’s grasp.

She would understand then—and together, we would find a way out.

Fourteen

Lucy

I WAITED SEVERAL DAYS BEFORE RETURNING TO THE PLACE where I had hidden his body.

I made the journey as much to reassure myself that it was real—that it had happened, that John was well and truly dead and would not somehow reappear, a specter sent to haunt me—as to ensure that Youssef had not meddled with it in the meantime. I waited until Alice was asleep, until the city at last began to doze, before moving quickly through the darkness. My head full, my ears ringing, the humidity seemed to rise with each and every step, ones that brought me, inevitably, closer to him.

And yet, despite knowing that I would find him where I had last left him—his body wedged beneath a boulder so near the cliff’s edge that not even the locals dared to stray there—it was still a shock to see him, the visceral evidence of my anger. I tilted my head. Under the fractured moonlight, he could almost be mistaken for a tourist sleeping peacefully under the Tangier moon. After it had happened, time had swept by curiously fast, so that I had found myself unusually unsettled, panicked as I strove to move him, his body, toward my intended hiding place—a spot that had once seemed perfect but in that moment felt too far away, too exposed.

I stood, looking down at him—my former opponent, now defeated, now vanquished. He posed a threat no longer. The ringing in my ears began to ease and the feeling of fullness began to dissipate, as if with my previous thought went all the worry, the anxiety, that had plagued me since my arrival in Tangier.

I moved closer and, averting my face, began to pull—trying now to unwedge what I had so determinedly wedged only a few days before. I gave him a hard shove, his body already rigid, putrid. My eyes resisted gazing at his skull, at the hollow I imagined there, from the rock that I had hidden behind my back that night, its edges sharp, filled with intention.

It had made a dull thud when it landed on the crown of his head, the movement itself forcing me to reach up—up and up and up, it seemed, beyond my natural height—so that I had wrenched my shoulder in the process, so that afterward I had reared back, unsteady, worried I had just given him the upper hand. But no, he had already fallen to his knees—in surprise, in hurt, I didn’t know, couldn’t recall, that insistent buzzing had, by then, grown to deafening heights, so that even if he had said something, anything, I most likely wouldn’t have heard it at all. His last words, if there were any, were lost. Only Tangier knew, and I suspected she would keep her secrets.

Afterward, I had looked at the rock in my hand, at the cold mass smeared in blood, and wondered whether it was a rock at all, or a piece of a tomb that had once housed the dead. I had been forced to suppress a laugh.

John had stirred then, his face contorting with rage at the realization of what was happening, the ferocity of his emotions somehow managing to knock us both to the ground, so that the rock slipped from my hand. Perhaps he did speak then, my memory suggested. A couple of short declarative sentences, nothing worth remembering—his speech had been slurred, as if he had had too much to drink.

He had taken the rock, holding it high above his head so that he looked like some grotesque version of a dancer, trying to execute a pirouette. He had started to move toward me, unsteady, the gash on his forehead bleeding heavily, streaming down the side of his face, cloaking him in a slick darkness.

It happened quickly then. I was up, prying the rock from his fingers—he offered little resistance, as if realizing the futility of it. I brought the rock down, hard this time, and he did not stir again.

Pushing his body now, my arms shaking with the effort, I wondered at what it had all been for. I stopped at the cliff’s edge.