Translucent, soft at the edges—but Jane, unmistakably, haunting the lower-right corner like a ghost. She looks at the camera, eyes level, lips parted. One arm stretches out of frame—grinding a cigarette into a bowl, I remember. Above her head rises a thick whorl of smoke. The time stamp reads 06:04 p.m., the date almost two weeks ago.

Jane. I’m hunched over the screen, barely breathing.

Jane.

The world is a beautiful place, she said.

Don’t forget that, and don’t miss it, she said.

Attagirl, she said.

She did say these things, all of them, because she was real.

Jane.

I tumble from the bed, sheets trailing after me, laptop sliding to the floor. Spring to the window, rip back the curtains.

Now the lights are on in the Russells’ parlor—that room where it all began. And there they sit, the two of them, on that striped love seat: Alistair and his wife. He slouches, beer bottle in his fist; her legs are cinched beneath her as she rakes a hand through her glossy hair.

The liars.

I look at the phone in my hand.

What do I do with this?

I know what Little would say, will say: The photo doesn’t prove anything beyond its own existence—and that of an anonymous woman.

“Dr. Fielding isn’t going to listen to you, either,” Ed tells me.

Shut up.

But he’s right.

Think. Think.

“What about Bina, Mommy?”

Stop it.

Think.

There’s only one move. My eyes travel from the parlor to the dark bedroom upstairs.

Take the pawn.

“Hello?”

A baby-bird voice, fragile and faint. I peer through the dark into his window. No sign of him.

“It’s Anna,” I say.

“I know.” Almost a whisper.

“Where are you?”

“In my room.”

“I don’t see you.”

A moment later he appears in the window like a phantom, slim and pale in a white T-shirt. I put a hand to the glass.

“Can you see me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I need you to come over.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I’m not allowed.”

I drop my gaze to the parlor. Alistair and Jane haven’t moved.

“I know, but it’s very important. It’s very important.”

“My dad took the key away.”

“I know.”

A pause. “If I can see you . . .” He trails off.

“What?”

“If I can see you, they can see you.”

I rock back on one foot, tug at the curtains, leaving a slit between them. Check the parlor. As they were.

“Just come,” I say. “Please. You’re not . . .”

“What?”

“You’re— When can you leave your house?”

Another pause. I see him inspect his phone, press it to his ear again. “My parents watch The Good Wife at ten. I can maybe go out then.”

Now I check my phone. Twenty minutes. “All right. Good.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Don’t alarm him. You’re not safe. “But there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“It’d be easier for me to come over tomorrow.”

“It can’t wait. Really—”

I glance downstairs. Jane is gazing at her lap, clutching a bottle of beer.

Alistair is gone.

“Hang up the phone,” I say, my voice leaping.

“Why?”

“Hang up.”

His mouth falls open.

His room bursts into light.

Behind him stands Alistair, his hand on the switch.

Ethan spins, arm dropping to one side. I hear the line go dead.

And I watch the scene in silence.

Alistair looms in the doorway, speaking. Ethan steps forward, raises his hand, wags the phone.

For a moment they stand still.

Then Alistair strides toward his son. Takes the phone from him. Looks at it.

Looks at Ethan.

Moves past him, to the window, glaring. I withdraw farther into my bedroom.

He spreads his arms, folds a shutter over either half of the glass. Presses them tight.

The room is sealed shut.

Checkmate.