The alarm just ringing and ringing.

“Misty,” Angel says. “Whatever this little experiment is, you are done.” He goes to her closet and gets out a bathrobe and sandals. He comes back and sticks each of her feet in one, saying, “It’s going to take about two minutes for people to find out this is a false alarm.”

Angel slips a hand under each of her arms and heaves Misty to her feet. He makes a fist and knocks it against her cast, saying, “What is this all about?”

Misty asks, What is he here for?

“That pill you gave me,” Angel says, “it gave me the worst migraine of my life.” He’s throwing the bathrobe over her shoulders and says, “I had a chemist analyze it.” Dropping each of her tired arms into a bathrobe sleeve, he says, “I don’t know what kind of doctor you have, but those capsules contain powdered lead with trace amounts of arsenic and mercury.”

The toxic parts of oil paints: Vandyke red, ferrocyanide; iodine scarlet, mercuric iodide; flake white, lead carbonate; cobalt violet, arsenic—all those beautiful compounds and pigments that artists treasure but turn out to be deadly. How your dream to create a masterpiece will drive you nuts and then kill you.

Her, Misty Marie Wilmot, the poisoned drug addict possessed by the devil, Carl Jung, and Stanislavski, painting perfect curves and angles.

Misty says he doesn’t understand. Misty says, Tabbi, her daughter. Tabbi’s dead.

And Angel stops. His eyebrows up in surprise, he says, “How?”

A few days ago, or weeks. Misty doesn’t know. Tabbi drowned.

“Are you sure?” he says. “It wasn’t in the newspaper.”

Just for the record, Misty’s not sure of anything.

Angel says, “I smell urine.”

It’s her catheter. It’s pulled out. They’re leaving a trail of pee from her easel, out the room, and down the hallway carpet. Pee, and her cast dragging.

“My bet,” Angel says, “is you don’t even need that leg in a cast.” He says, “You know that chair in the picture you sold me?”

Misty says, “Tell me.”

His arms around her, he’s dragging Misty through a door, into the stairwell. “That chair was made by the cabinetmaker Hershel Burke in 1879,” he says, “and shipped to Waytansea Island for the Burton family.”

Her cast thuds on every step. Her ribs hurt from Angel’s fingers holding too tight, rooting and digging under her arms, and Misty tells him, “A police detective.” Misty says, “He said some ecology club is burning down all those houses Peter wrote inside.”

“Burned,” Angel says. “Mine included. They’re all gone.”

The Ocean Alliance for Freedom. OAFF for short.

Angel’s hands still in their leather driving gloves, he drags her down another flight of stairs, saying, “You know this means something paranormal is happening, don’t you?”

First, Angel Delaporte says, it’s impossible she could draw so well. Now it’s some evil spirit just using her as a human Etch A Sketch. She’s only good enough to be some demonic drafting tool.

Misty says, “I thought you’d say that.”

Oh, Misty, she knows what’s happening.

Misty says, “Stop.” She says, “Just why are you here?”

Why since the start of all this has he been her friend? What is it that keeps Angel Delaporte pestering her? Until Peter wrecked his kitchen, until Misty rented him her house, they were strangers. Now he’s pulling fire alarms and dragging her down a stairway. Her with a dead kid and a comatose husband.

Her shoulders twist. Her elbows jerk up, hitting him around the face, smack in his missing eyebrows. To make him drop her. To make him leave her alone. Misty says, “Just stop.”

There on the stairs, the fire alarm stops. It’s quiet. Only her ears still ring.

You can hear voices from the hallway on each floor. A voice from the attic says, “Misty’s gone. She’s not in her room.”

It’s Dr. Touchet.

Before they go another step, Misty waves her fists at Angel. Misty whispers, “Tell me.” Collapsed on the stairs, she whispers, “Why are you fucking with me?”

ALL THE THINGS Misty loved about Peter, Angel loved them first. In art school, it was Angel and Peter, until Misty came along. They’d planned out their whole future. Not as artists, but as actors. It didn’t matter if they made money, Peter had told him. Told Angel Delaporte. Someone in Peter’s generation would marry a woman who’d make the Wilmot family and his whole community wealthy enough that none of them would have to work. He never explained the details of this system.

You never did.

But Peter said every four generations, a boy from the island would meet a woman he’d have to marry. A young art student. Like an old fairy tale. He’d bring her home, and she’d paint so well it would make Waytansea Island rich for another hundred years. He’d sacrifice his life, but it was just one life. Just once every four generations.

Peter had shown Angel Delaporte his junk jewelry. He’d told Angel the old custom, how the woman who responded to the jewelry, who was attracted and trapped by it, that would be the fairy-tale woman. Every boy in his generation had to enroll in art school. He had to wear a piece of the jewelry, scratched and rusted and tarnished. He had to meet as many women as possible.

You had to.

Dear sweet closeted bisexual Peter.

The “walking peter” Misty’s friends tried to warn her about.

The brooches, they pinned through their foreheads, their nipples. Navels and cheekbones. The necklaces, they’d thread through holes in their noses. They calculated to be revolting. To disgust. To prevent any woman from admiring them, and they each prayed another boy would meet the rumored woman. Because the day one unlucky boy married this woman, the rest of his generation would be free to live their own lives. And so would the next three generations.

Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves.

Instead of progress, the island was stuck in this repeating loop. Recycling the same ancient success. Period revival. This same ritual.

It was Misty the unlucky boy would meet. Misty was their fairy-tale woman.

There on the hotel stairs, Angel told her this. Because he could never understand why Peter had left and gone off to marry her. Because Peter could never tell him. Because Peter never loved her, Angel Delaporte says.

You never loved her.

You shit sack.

And what you can’t understand you can make mean anything.

Because Peter was only fulfilling some fabled destiny. A superstition. An island legend, and no matter how hard Angel tried to talk him out of it, Peter insisted that Misty was his destiny.

Your destiny.

Peter insisted that his life should be wasted, married to a woman he never loved, because he’d be saving his family, his future children, his entire community from poverty. From losing control of their small, beautiful world. Their island. Because their system had worked for hundreds of years.

Collapsed there on the stairs, Angel says, “That’s why I hired him to work on my house. That’s why I’ve followed him here.” Misty and him on the stairs, her cast stretched out between them, Angel Delaporte leans in close, his breath full of red wine, and says, “I just want you to tell me why he sealed those rooms. And why the room here—room 313—here in this hotel?”

Why did Peter sacrifice his life to marry her? His graffiti, it wasn’t a threat. Angel says it was a warning. Why was Peter trying to warn everyone?

A door opens into the stairwell above them, and a voice says, “There she is.” It’s Paulette, the desk clerk. It’s Grace Wilmot and Dr. Touchet. It’s Brian Gilmore, who runs the post office. And old Mrs. Terrymore from the library. Brett Petersen, the hotel manager. Matt Hyland from the grocery store. It’s the whole village council coming down the stairs toward them.