She tried to remember the layout of the Markhams’ place. The only time she’d been upstairs was when Isabella showed her around and gave her the key. She was pretty sure the candlelight was coming from the master bedroom. It was a big room on this side of the house with a wall of windows that looked out over the open ocean. She remembered thinking how glorious it would be to wake up warm and cozy in the Markhams’ king-sized bed and watch the sun come up over the horizon. How wonderful to have someone to make love to in a setting like that.

Abby moved toward the house, trying to stay in the shadows like a TV detective. She had a feeling that whoever or whatever was inside, it wasn’t Annie or Marie or any of the other island kids – and if not them, who? Her anxiety rose. She reached the house and climbed the twelve steps up to the porch. Then she pressed herself against the front of the house and crept sideways to the front door. She pushed her ear against the door and realized instantly how dumb that was. Between the blowing of the wind and the crashing of the waves against the rocks, there was no way in hell she’d hear anyone inside even if they were screaming at the top of their lungs.

But then she did. Someone talking quietly. Then someone else. Then a chorus whispering. The Voices were waking from their slumber. Go on, stupid bitch, go inside. Go, you fat slug. Go inside and get yourself killed. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Ignore them, she told herself. Don’t respond. Answering back just encourages them. She pushed herself forward. She had to do this. If she couldn’t ignore the Voices and do her job, she might just as well leap off the rocks. That’s what the Voices wanted her to do. This time they’d make sure there were no lobstermen around to fish her out.

Abby felt wetness under the mask and realized she was crying. The Voices were getting louder. She had to shut them up. She pulled off her gloves, reached into her fanny pack, and found her Zyprexa. Pulled off the mask and dry-swallowed a 20 mg tablet, her second of the day. Twice what she was supposed to have. She didn’t know how long it would take to work or even if it would work, but she hoped it would. It was her only weapon.

She put her mask and gloves back on and crept around to the back of the house. She peered in the window of the garage. There was more than enough moonlight to tell the car inside wasn’t the Markhams’ Escalade. It was something smaller, sleeker.

Abby riffled through her keys until she found the one marked I.M. She opened the back door and stepped inside, closed it, and listened again. She stood stock-still. Moonlight poured through the big front windows, lighting the whole ground floor, which consisted of one big room, a kitchen area that led seamlessly into open dining and living spaces. Outside, foamy explosions of moonlit waves crashed into the rocks. The house was so solidly built, she could barely hear them. She didn’t think the extra pill could have worked that fast, but the Voices seemed quieter. Reduced to a grousing and grumbling like restless sleepers turning in their beds. Otherwise there was silence.

The room felt warm. Abby knelt down and placed a bare hand flat on the hardwood floor. The underfloor heating was on. She looked around for coats or boots or other signs of winter intruders. Nothing. To Abby’s right a staircase led up to the second floor and whoever or whatever awaited her there. She stood by the bottom step and listened. From upstairs, she heard a long, low mournful cry. Her heart beat faster. Was it the Voices? She didn’t think so, but she told them to shut up anyway. She stood for a minute, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. If she could do this one thing and do it right, maybe she could silence the Voices forever. Besides, it was her job. She had to try. She looked around the kitchen for a possible weapon. She spotted a nine-inch chef’s knife. Lethal – but the thought of actually stabbing anyone, even in self-defense, frightened her too much. She settled instead for a small cast-iron skillet. The notion of fracturing a skull was somehow more appealing.

She took her mittens off and clipped them to her belt. She took another deep breath, waited a few seconds, then began to climb the stairs, one by one, as silently as possible. She was clutching the skillet so tightly her right hand began to hurt. She stepped onto the landing floor. A thick carpet muffled her steps. The wordless cry came again, soft and utterly without hope. It seemed to Abby the saddest sound she’d ever heard. Was it real or was it the Voices? She had no way of knowing. The door at the end of the dark hall was ajar. Dim, flickering light shone through an opening of an inch or maybe less. Abby pushed herself against the jamb and, with one eye, peered in. For a moment she stood transfixed, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the scene before her.

The room was lit only by a few candles scattered around. A naked woman knelt on the bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with what looked like silk scarves. Another scarf was tied around her mouth. Her head was down. Dark hair hid her face. At the side of the bed a man stood, facing the woman, his back to Abby. He, too, was naked with a slender, muscular body. He held a thin-bladed knife in his right hand. As Abby watched, he lifted the woman’s hair with his left hand, raised the knife with his right. He brought the knife downward in an arc. Stopped. Positioned it carefully in the center of the woman’s neck. Then pushed. The blade penetrated flesh. The woman slumped. Abby’s brain exploded in a cacophony of Voices. She screamed. The man turned; he had no face, just a fiery mane with icy eyes peering at Abby through the flames. Shocked by Abby’s scream, the man with the face of fire pulled the knife from the woman’s neck, tore open the door, and slashed at Abby’s throat. She leapt back. The blade missed. He raised his arm to strike again. Abby swung the skillet. Missed. The Voices screamed. Abby ran. The man, still naked, ran after her. Abby’s head filled with horrible sounds. A chorus screaming for her death. She took the stairs two at a time and raced for the front door. It was locked. The man closed in. Abby swung the skillet and missed again. Flames flew from his bestial eyes. The Voices laughed hysterically. Abby flipped the bolt. Death touched her arm, his hand burning like the devil’s own. She turned, crouched, and swung the skillet in a low arc like the field hockey player she once was going for a goal. This time it connected. He went down, choking, gasping for air, clutching his injured testicles. Abby spun and ran through the open door and down the steps, tossing the skillet into the shrubs at the side of the house. She raced across the frozen yard. Glancing back, she saw his naked form charging down the porch stairs and out into the frozen night. She leapt the icy slope down onto the road. Her cleats somehow held on the slick surface. Looking back again, she saw him slip, feet flying out from under him in a kind of circus pantomime. A naked clown with a head of fire slipping on a frozen banana peel. His momentum took him up into the air, then down again, hard on his back. He lay still. Abby ran off into the night. She ran blindly, certain he would follow, determined to outrun not just her own death but also the Voices shrieking inside her head.

She ran for nearly a mile, expecting at each step to feel Death’s hand touch her shoulder, expecting his blade to plunge into her neck as it had the woman’s. Finally, winded, she paused. Behind her there was nothing. Just moonlit ice shining off the empty road. He was gone. Abby stared into the darkness, catching her breath. Still nothing. Had she imagined it all? Would her doctor tell her it was nothing but her illness creating visions that didn’t exist except in her mind? She didn’t know. Maybe that’s all it was.