She grabbed the shovel and used the handle to tap the glass. One, two, three times—nauseous, feeling the impact all the way to her teeth. But at last she succeeded, and the glass shattered inward, landing on the floor with a faint tinkling. Dea paused, holding her breath, half expecting the monsters to come roaring out through the broken window and leap for her throat. But nothing happened. The house was dark and still. She heard no baby crying, no footsteps, no arguments. It was terrible to enter an apartment so quiet. She was totally disoriented, and couldn’t plan for what she would find.

She shimmied through the window, feeling a little bit like she was moving down into the soft dampness of an animal’s throat. Her feet crunched on the glass where she landed, and she paused in a crouch, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, scanning every shadow for hidden movement. She was in the kitchen, and she was alone. Pale squares of moonlight fell on the tile floors. The refrigerator door was cluttered with magnets and Christmas cards, like a paper skin, and there was a high chair drawn up to the table, and a baby bib still lying, folded, on a countertop. She fought down an overwhelming sense of grief.

How easily, she thought, the ends could destroy even perfect beginnings. And just for a second, she wondered whether she could be happy living alongside her mother in a world where death didn’t come for everyone; where there were no seasons and no endings.

She stood up and moved as quietly as she could around the kitchen, opening drawers until she found what she wanted: a paring knife, sharp and small and easily concealed. She curled her fist around the handle and slid out into the hall. It was hot, and the air smelled of pine needles, carpet cleaner, and something sweet she couldn’t identify. It was so quiet. Had she missed them? Had the men come and vanished already?

A small part of her wished it. She didn’t know if she was ready to face them. But she knew, instinctively, that they were there with her, hidden in the darkness of the apartment somewhere. They soured the air with their breathing; they made ripples in the darkness, like stones in water. Her whole body was on alert.

She no longer knew whether her heart was beating. Her chest was so tight with terror, she could barely take a breath. She inched forward, leaving the moonlight behind, in darkness so thick it felt weighty, like a blanket, gripping her knife.

Something creaked. She froze. Her hand was shaking when she raised the knife.

One of the doors on her right opened a few inches. Framed in the gap was the white, wide-eyed face of a six-year-old Connor, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, his expression twisted with terror.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s all right. It’s okay.” Connor stayed where he was, staring, moving his mouth as if he was trying to scream. She couldn’t stand to see him; she couldn’t stand to have him watch. “Go back inside.” She reached out and closed the door softly.

She moved on, forcing her way, doubled forward like a person fighting against a strong wind. The door of Connor’s mother’s bedroom was also open a crack. Dea stood for a second or for an eternity, afraid to enter and afraid to turn back. At last she pushed open the door and stepped inside, drawing a breath sharply against the sudden odor of sweat and blood. A scream rose in her throat and lodged there.

It was done. It had happened. In the corner, the lamp was shattered into pieces, and there was a huddled mass of darkness in the crib. She couldn’t bring herself to go any closer. She coughed, her stomach rolling into her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes.

Connor’s mom was still in bed. The covers were drawn up to the pillows, so Dea could see nothing but the vague shape of her, the swell of her body under the comforter.

She couldn’t help it. She was drawn forward, as though by an external force. Without considering what she was doing—and what she would see—she reached out and flipped back the covers. She stifled a cry.

The bed was empty, except for two pillows, roughly massed together in the shape of a woman.

“You bitch.”

She spun around at the sound of the voice—but slowly, too slowly, so that by the time she reacted he had already had time to push her backward onto the bed, immobilizing her under his weight. He was gripping her wrists so tightly, she couldn’t begin to make use of the knife.

This time, his face wasn’t made of sticky darkness. She could just make out his features, distorted by the mask—the flat plane of his nose, the cruel set of his lips, hooded eyes. The other one was standing by the door, shifting impatiently, foot to foot.

“Come on,” said the second man. “Get it over with.”

The man on top of Dea leaned into her, so heavy she could barely breathe. She could smell his breath, sour, faintly alcoholic. She turned her head away from him, gasping into the sheets.

“Did you really think I’d sit back and let you ruin everything?” He spat. “Huh? Did you?”

“Hurry up. The kid’ll wake up.”

“Please,” Dea choked out. “Please don’t do this.” She realized, with a swinging sense of terror, of vertigo, that she was playing the part of Connor’s mom: she was saying the right lines, she’d been forced into the right position. The memory was making her play the role of the murder victim. Her fingers were numb; she felt her grip relax on the knife.

He was going to kill her. Right here, right now.

“Now you’ll beg?” He spat out. “That’s funny. That’s really funny.” He forced his lips to her ear. She cried out. She tried to kick. But he was lying on top of her, flattening her, squeezing the air from her chest. He was too heavy and far, far too strong. She felt the stubble of his facial hair chafing her cheek. She wanted to die. She wanted to live. She wanted out. “I told you,” he whispered. “I told you I’d never let you go.”

Words he had spoken to Connor’s mother, years ago: words Connor, hiding, terrified, pressing his ear to the wall, had heard and buried.

Dea felt a hot surge of rage. “Get off of me.” She whipped her head around and felt a blast of pain as their skulls collided with a crack. Spots of color floated across her vision. He cried out and jerked back but just for an instant. Before she could raise the knife, he had lunged for her again. She took a breath and screamed. He released her left wrist and grabbed hold of her throat. She choked on her own saliva. The scream died in her throat as he squeezed. She tried to swallow and couldn’t. She tried to breathe and couldn’t.

Stars were exploding in her mind; she was on the Ferris wheel with Connor again. She was floating.

Distantly, she heard someone shouting, “Jesus Christ, do it already. The kid, the goddamn kid—”

And a child, howling.

Connor?

His brother?

No . . . Connor’s brother was dead. . . .

She would die, too. . . .

Her lungs were screaming. Darkness ate at the edges of her vision. Her jaw ached and there were fireworks behind her eyeballs and her head would explode. She thought of her mother’s face, and the cool sensation of a wind tickling her forehead as she leaned out the window of the old VW, and watched the world whip past.

Give them faces. Her mother’s voice came to her, light and laughing on the wind.

Bitchbitchbitch, the man was saying. He sounded so far away. Even the pain was passing. She was with her mother on the highway. Then she was climbing the high tower, toward a place of dreams.

No, Dea, her mother said, echoing around the stone. Not yet. Not yet.

In another world, she felt her left hand move. An inch. Two inches. It floated up toward his face, toward the mask pulled taut over his features. She watched it appear in her field of vision and felt nothing but curious detachment, as if she were witnessing the slow drift of a balloon from the ground.