Bone Music

And then she realizes she’s made a critical mistake.

She forgot to turn on the light in the kitchen, and now she’s standing in almost total darkness over the sink, which looks about as natural as if she’d just hit the linoleum in a downward dog.

In the window above the sink, she sees his shadow. She sees his curls. Just their silhouette, backlit by the garage light.

Jason Briffel’s curls.

Her hands have stopped shaking, but the tingling has moved from her arms, across her back, and up the back of her neck. It’s even touching the sides of her face.

One shot, she tells herself. Shoot him and make a break for the living room and the front door. No talk. No negotiation. He’s in my fucking house. If he wants to die here, he made that choice when he broke in. I moved to a Stand Your Ground state for a reason.

She imagines herself doing it before she’s done it. Imagines pulling the gun from the holster attached to the cabinet’s ceiling, turning, and firing off as many shots as it takes to drop him. She imagines it so clearly, she doesn’t realize she’s just tried it.

And nothing happened.

She’s pulled the trigger twice and the only sounds in the kitchen are their combined breaths. Jason has raised his hands, not in surrender but to calm her. He approaches her slowly, as if she’s a hysterical woman, and he’s broken into her house in the middle of nowhere because he’s the only one in the universe who can reason with her.

How how how how how, she thinks, the word like a mad bird’s cawing in her brain. How did he get here? How did he get in my house?

Her new name’s not even on the deed. Kayla helped her set up a trust after they won the case against her dad. No one else knows she’s out here. No one except . . .

“Put the gun down, Trina.”

“That’s not my name.”

“It is your name. It will always be your name. Now enough of this game playing. Enough of the denial. We’re grown-ups now, and it’s time for us to talk about grown-up things.”

From the back waistband of his pants, he pulls a gun. One of her guns. No doubt this one’s fully loaded. It’s the one from her bedroom or under her desk in the living room. It has to be. But he keeps it pointed at the ceiling. The gesture says he doesn’t want to use it on her, but he will if he has to, which seems as sick and condescending as the words he just spoke with oily certainty.

“You need to leave,” she hears herself say. “You need to leave my house.”

“This isn’t a house, Trina. This is a shack, a prison. I hate to sound so judgmental, but it’s pathetic. I mean, you’re out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s not safe.”

She wants to believe he’s taunting her, but he isn’t. He genuinely believes the things he’s saying. And he’s lost a considerable amount of weight. That fact terrifies her almost as much as his presence here. When she last saw him, there was something infantlike about his portliness. Now he’s lean and ready to pounce, and this suggests he’s been preparing for this moment, transforming himself into a more efficient predator.

He aspires to be a serial killer. She’s known this from the moment she read his letters. But his behavior has always been more stalker than murderer. Can she appeal to the former side of him? Can she soothe and seduce him?

“You scared me, Jason. The things you did . . . they scared me.”

Feed his ego. Make him feel as if he’s the center of my world.

“Well, that’s ridiculous, Trina,” he says, with a great pained smile that almost looks like a grimace. “I’d never hurt you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To bring you back,” he says. “To bring you back to your life, your real life. Your destiny.”

“With you,” she says. She tries to keep her voice as neutral as she can, to not betray her disgust at these words, and apparently she’s successful because he nods fiercely as he takes another step toward her.

“You made the first step yourself, and that’s good. You cut yourself off from your birth father and got him out of your life. And that was the best thing you could have done. And then . . . well, the universe stepped in and handled the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Your grandmother.”

“What about my grandmother?” A mistake to ask this; there’s a tremor in her voice now.

“It was for the best. She was in your way, too. I know you were sad when she died, but it was the only way for you to be free.”

“Did you hurt my grandmother, Jason?”

“No!” he whines. He sounds like a child. And he’s so genuinely wounded she knows he’s telling the truth. “I can’t cause heart attacks. I’m not God. But if there is a God, he took her away when he did because she wasn’t your real family, Trina. Abigail is. I am.”

She runs for it.

There’s a few feet of space between the sink and the door to the living room. As soon as she bounds in that direction, she hears him erupt. “No, no, no, no, no,” he says like a man whose dog has just jumped from the back seat of his car.

He crashes into her from behind, arms around her waist suddenly. He still holds the gun in one hand, which is stupid. Stupid and untrained. The two of them careen into her desk, and at any moment he could fire wildly by accident.

Her head slams into one of the computer monitors, then the solid wall behind it. She feels no pain. None of the bone-rattling, stomach-churning agony that should follow such a double blow. It’s shock; it has to be. But even as she tumbles amid the wreckage of her desk, the tingling she felt earlier is all over her body, along with another sensation. It’s utterly foreign, utterly without precedent in her experience. The words that leap to her mind to describe it are just as strange: bone music. It feels like the bass line of some song is being played inside her very bones.

The desk gives way beneath them as they struggle. Her arms flail. She feels her fingers close around the stand of one of the wide-screen monitors as it falls along with her.

What happens next takes place with the very ease, grace, and speed with which she tried to shoot him moments ago.

She is standing now, facing the living room, and Jason is on his knees. Somehow she is holding one of the wide-screen monitors in one hand. The same monitor it took both hands to get out of the box when she first installed it. The same monitor that was so top heavy she was afraid of dropping the thing before she managed to lower it to her desk for the first time. Now she’s holding it one hand, her fingers gripping the open O in its A-shaped stand, as if the whole thing weighs no more than a flyswatter, and that’s exactly how she’s just used the thing on Jason’s head.

Jason sways back and forth, his eyes wide and unblinking. Blood spurts from his right temple. In another second he’ll be spitting it from his lips. Or drinking it, because his jaw is slack and the way he’s swaying looks like he can’t tell up from down, as if he might keel over at any moment.

“Don’t get up,” she says.

He doesn’t listen. He throws one leg out in front of him, knee bent, foot steady on the floor.

So she hits him again.

This time she’s fully present while she does it. The miracle of it leaves her in a daze. It truly feels as if the monitor weighs almost nothing. Its impact with his skull causes only the slightest recoil in her arm. To accomplish all of this, she needed only a few short breaths. And now that she’s done it, she needs only a few more, and then she feels fully recovered. And she’s still holding the thing in one hand like it’s a costume shield.

This is impossible, she thinks. But how else can she explain the fact that Jason Briffel is now sprawled on his back, looking as if he’s just been dropped from a great height? He doesn’t even stir as she picks up the gun he dropped, keeping it aimed at him as she grabs for the nearest phone, the one that wasn’t pulled to the floor by their collision with her desk.

Her landline is hooked to a satellite Internet connection, and he’s cut the line between the base and the wall. Cell phone service out here is passable, thanks to the three signal boosters she installed on the roof. But her phone’s probably back at Dylan’s office, if she didn’t leave it in the car.

And Jason might not be alone.

Gun raised, she cases each room, the way she taught herself to do after watching countless YouTube videos posted by retired cops. She’s never been so grateful to have such a small house with so few hiding places.

In her bedroom closet, she finds his backpack. But when she reaches for it with one hand, it seems to take flight into the air behind her.

Adrenaline, she tells herself. Just adrenaline. It won’t last.

But the tingling’s still there. The bone music is still there. And there’s no denying that by reaching for the bag with what she thought was a minimal amount of effort, she’d somehow ended up throwing it into the air behind her.