6
11:21 P.M.

“DYLAN?” MARY TRIED TO blink the rain and tears and strands of wet hair from her eyes. “Dylan? Is that you?”

“Grab my hand,” Dylan repeated. He was crouching, his arms outstretched. His own sodden hair flicked back and forth as he whipped his head around in near panic like a trapped animal. “Come on—do it!”

Mary reached up and fumbled with Dylan’s hands, grabbing his wrists with her freezing fingers as he did the same to hers. The rain was picking up again; big drops spattered on her shoulders and face as Dylan leaned backward and heaved, pulling her upward. She nearly screamed as her bare ankle scraped against rough tree roots and stones. Dylan was grimacing, his eyes clenched tight, his face crimson with the effort.

I can’t get out, Mary thought, biting her lip at the pain as the roots scraped against her rib cage, tearing the green fabric that Amy Twersky had paid so much for—the fabric you were warned not to dry-clean too often, since it was so delicate. He’s not going to be able to do it; he’s not strong enough.

But he was. With a sudden, scraping sound like the screech of a nail being pulled from a piece of wood, Mary catapulted upward, muddy water flowing into the hole as she collapsed onto Dylan, knocking him into the tall weeds. Dylan grunted as her weight drove all the air from his lungs.

But he was trying to get out from under her, wincing with the strain as he clamped his fingers around her shoulder and pushed her aside. She rolled sideways into the mud and he wheezed as he got his legs under himself and awkwardly rose to his feet.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Dylan muttered as he clamped his hands around his shin—she realized he’d banged it against something. Beneath his thick, lined overcoat, he was still dressed in the charcoal suit she’d seen him in back when everything was at least close to being sane, before she’d dropped the rest of the way off the edge of the world and into this nightmare.

“Joon!” Mary screamed as soon as she could breathe. Dylan was pulling her to her feet, hunching over and looking back and forth, like a fugitive escaped from a chain gang. “Amy … Joon … Oh my G—”

Dylan clamped his hand over her mouth, nearly making her gag.

“Quiet,” Dylan hissed. She could hear the fear in his voice. “For God’s sake, don’t make so much noise.”

“Mmm—mmm—” Mary was shaking her head, trying to pull away. Her body was so wet and freezing that she suspected she might be in the early stages of hypothermia. It was still nearly impossible to see; the black, primeval forest hissed and swayed in the cold wind. Mary tried to push Dylan’s hand away from her mouth.

“Will you be quiet!” Dylan snapped. She stopped struggling and nodded and he took his hand away.

“They’re gone,” Mary sobbed, grabbing Dylan’s neck and pulling him toward her. She nearly toppled into the mud and then managed to regain her footing, but it was difficult, because her scratched feet were numb. “Oh my God, Dylan—we have to go down there—”

“We have to leave,” Dylan whispered grimly, pushing his sodden hair back from his face and pulling her toward the house. “Mary, Jesus, come on.”

“But—”

“There’s no time,” Dylan insisted, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Don’t you understand? We’re going to be next if we don’t leave.”

“But I have to save Joon,” Mary sobbed, pointing behind them at the frayed end of the rope that still hung from the tree. She was struggling frantically, trying to pull away from Dylan’s slippery yet firm grip. “She fell down into that stream and—”

“You can’t save anyone!” Dylan raged in her face. “It’s too late! Now, for Christ’s sake, come on!”

It’s too late, Mary thought. She stopped struggling and slumped against Dylan, shaking as she sobbed, letting the tears come in earnest. Her blurred final view of Joon’s gagged face, her hair standing straight up above her head as she fell—the sickening finality of Amy’s last scream—everything was repeating over and over in her mind like an evil slide show that she couldn’t stop watching. She wanted to turn back the clock, to start over from the beginning of the day.

“We’ve—we’ve got to get away,” Dylan whispered as he pulled her along, around the side of the farmhouse, skirting the edge of the wide field she’d seen visions of all day. “Hurry up—my car’s over here.”

“But what’s—what’s happening, Dylan?” Mary was limping slightly from her ankle wound, but the pain wasn’t too bad and she could just manage to keep up with him. “What the hell is happening?”

“I can’t—I can’t explain now.” Dylan had let go of her waist and arms and was fishing in his pocket for his car keys. As they rounded the sagging edge of the deserted house, Mary squinted in the sudden glare. A battered Ford Taurus was parked next to Patrick’s car, its headlights gleaming through the rain, making wild coronas in her wet eyes. Dylan had left the driver’s door open. He pushed Mary roughly toward the car and she stumbled and collapsed against its fender—she could feel the engine’s heat throbbing beneath the metal.

“Get in,” Dylan ordered, pointing. He continued to look around, his head pivoting like a bird’s. In the glare of the four headlights, she could see his mud-streaked face clearly; she could see the barely contained panic in his eyes. “Door’s open. We’ve got to get away right now.”

Mary limped her way around the side of the Taurus and pulled the passenger door open. A chime started bonging as she collapsed on the seat, the thin, wet fabric of the ruined dress pressing against her thighs, freezing them. She pulled her scratched legs inside and yanked the door shut. Dylan had climbed in beside her and slammed his own door, fumbling with the keys as he turned them in the ignition. The headlights dimmed as the engine turned over, nearly stalling and then roaring to life. The instrument panel flared, casting an eerie green glow on Dylan’s hands and face. The wheels ground loudly against the gravel and the engine whined as Dylan twisted his head around, clenching his teeth with the effort of peering through the fogged windows, swerving the car as he propelled them backward, trying not to smash into any of the overhanging trees.

Mary’s teeth were chattering. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her body, but it was no use—she was frozen to the bone. Her breathing hitched with dry sobs.

Staring straight ahead, through the windshield, Mary watched the deserted house recede into the darkness and disappear. She got one final glance of Trick’s empty Mercedes, its long low doors spread wide open like gull wings, its sapphire headlights illuminating the emerald leaves, its windshield wipers flicking back and forth, back and forth.

HE DROVE FAST. THEY were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, speeding south, heading back toward the city. The rain was pounding now, scattering from the highway in front of them in a fine spray that danced in the headlights. Dylan had punched a dashboard button that got the heat going full blast, and the car’s interior was warming up. The windshield wipers hummed as they worked.

“There’s a blanket,” Dylan muttered, flicking his head backward, keeping his eyes on the road. “Back there.”

Mary didn’t want to move. She wanted to sit in the uncomfortable seat and stare at the converging white lines and the passing aluminum guardrail and stop thinking, stop remembering Amy’s screams and Joon’s desperate struggle at the end of that fraying rope. She couldn’t make herself numb. It was impossible. Eventually, she twisted around and groped in the darkness of the backseat—her fingers brushed against a wool blanket and she pulled it forward, sending a stack of battered paperbacks toppling from the seat to the floor of the car.

“Thanks,” Mary managed to whisper.

“Yeah.”

Dylan was driving eighty-five miles an hour, she saw. There was almost no traffic—a few sedans whipped past, headed in the other direction, headlights dazzling her as they went by, but the southbound lane was nearly empty.

“How did you—” Mary coughed explosively, her hoarse throat aching with the strain. She pulled the thick blanket around herself, basking in the warmth. “How did you know? How did—What’s—”

“Don’t try to talk.” Dylan sounded as bad as she did. Turning her head against the seat, she could see his profile. He was checking the rearview mirror, over and over. “Please just let me drive.”

“Okay.” Mary was in no mood to argue. The sodden fabric of the ruined dress pressed against her skin like cold ropes. She was still shivering.

Headlights were coming up behind them.

Dylan noticed it too—he glanced in the rearview mirror again. Mary could feel her breathing quickening. A slow, steady wave of dread was beginning to creep over her, one more time.

It’s nothing, Mary told herself. Just traffic.

Dylan didn’t seem fazed. His driving was steady. Rain beat down on the car’s windows. Mary heard a low rumble of thunder, far in the distance.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to the city.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“What?”

Dylan sounded confused by the question. Glancing over at his profile, Mary saw an odd look on his face—a strange, puzzled cast to his eyes. The car behind them had caught up, and bands of bright light came sliding across the Taurus’s ceiling.

“Dylan,” she repeated, deliberately. There was something about his manner that she didn’t like—she couldn’t put her finger on it, but something seemed odd, out of place. “Where are you taking me?”

“I don’t—”

The car was slowing down, Mary was sure of it; she could hear the drone of the engine decreasing in pitch. She glanced over and saw the illuminated speedometer needle twirling backward, like a clock hand sweeping in reverse.

“Dylan, what’s wrong?” Mary didn’t like this at all. What had come over him? His hands were twitching the wheel oddly and the car was bucking and weaving. The car behind them was nearly tailgating—the Taurus’s interior was brilliantly headlit. “What’s—what’s happening to you?”

“I don’t—” Dylan shook his head quickly, as if he was trying to shake off his disorientation. His wet hair flopped over his forehead. Mary sat upright and peered behind them, squinting in the glare of the headlights of the car following them. She couldn’t see any details—just the lights, getting closer. “I can’t—I can’t remember what—”

The car behind them honked. The blast of its horn was deafeningly loud; Mary flinched, shivering as she stole another glance backward at the headlights that were right there, mere feet away.

“Dylan!” Mary yelled. She slapped her hands against the dashboard, bracing herself as their car drifted, nearly skidding. The car behind them gave another series of horn blasts. “Dylan, snap out of it! We’re going to have an accident—”

Dylan was blinking fast. Something was definitely wrong with him; his hands were slackening on the wheel and the car was drifting to the right, propelling itself toward the blur of trees along the parkway’s edge. Mary’s body was flooded with adrenaline. The other car swerved and weaved, its headlamps flashing like disco lights as its horn blasted again.

“Jesus Christ!” Dylan yelled.

Mary saw his hands tighten on the wheel. She was pitched against the passenger door, her bare shoulder banging against the window, as Dylan regained control of the Taurus and pulled back into the passing lane. A band of reflected headlight caught his eyes as he looked in the rearview mirror and punched the gas, propelling them forward—the speedometer showed them approaching sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour.

The car behind them matched their speed.

“Dylan, what the hell is going on?” Mary shouted. The blanket had fallen to the floor and she leaned to gather it up as Dylan pulled the car to ninety. “What happened to you?”

“Fasten your seat belt,” Dylan told her. He sounded frightened. “Jesus, they’re right behind us—”

“Who’s behind us?” Mary was fumbling with the shoulder belt, trying to yank it across herself while the car lurched forward. Thunder sounded, not that far off, as she snapped the seat-belt buckle home. The car was moving so erratically, she was absolutely convinced Dylan was about to flip it over. The pursuers’ headlights were falling behind. “Who the hell is doing this to—”

The brakes screeched and Mary was flung forward against her seat belt as Dylan spun the wheel, throwing them into a corkscrew spin, aiming the car at an exit ramp. Mary screamed as Dylan hit the gas—she could almost feel the fillings ripping loose from her teeth as the Taurus banged over the curb of the embankment and sped forward along the narrow off-ramp.

The pursuing car roared past, missing the exit. Through the pounding rain, Mary heard a distant squeal. The other car’s brake lights flashed, bright red coals through the charcoal darkness, and then it was gone. Mary fell back against her seat, feeling like she was going to vomit—the feeling passed, just barely, and then she was hyperventilating. Dylan slowed down, breathing heavily himself, his hands shaking on the wheel. They drove beneath a yellow streetlight and onto a narrow Riverdale boulevard. Mary realized where they were—less than a mile north of Manhattan—as a flash of lightning lit up the deserted suburban street. The street was flanked by trees and lined with two-story homes.

“Okay,” Dylan rasped. He was still shaking. Mary could see his whitened knuckles gripping the steering wheel. “Okay, okay. We lost them. I think we really lost them.”

“Who were they?”

“If I told you,” Dylan said, rubbing perspiration from his forehead with a shaky hand, “you’d never believe me.”

“But—”

“Just give me a minute,” Dylan muttered. He was looking around them, peering through the rain-streaked windows, apparently trying to find road signs, landmarks. “Okay? Please—just let me drive. I’ve got to figure out how to get us where we’re going.”

IT HIT HER AGAIN, as she climbed the steep stairs of Dylan’s tiny apartment building. She was trying to remain numb, not to think about anything but her freezing, battered body and the effort of taking each barefoot step up the filthy worn tiles of the brownstone. Dylan wordlessly fumbled with his keys, looking over his shoulder again and again, the dread obvious on his chiseled face.

Don’t think. Just walk. You can do that, can’t you?

She couldn’t. In her mind, she saw the rope break, saw Joon’s body drop like a stone; she heard Amy’s bloodcurdling scream before something cut it off like scissors snipping a ribbon; and she was sobbing again, practically collapsing against the painted iron banister.

“Come on,” Dylan whispered, behind her, awkwardly putting his hands on her shoulders, over the blanket covering the shreds of her ruined dress (Amy’s ruined dress, she corrected herself miserably). “Come on, Mary. Climb the stairs. Just climb the stairs.”

She nodded. Her eyes were red and raw; her tangled hair hung in her face. She couldn’t speak. She could only nod. And keep climbing.

They were on 125th Street, just off Morningside Avenue, near Columbia University. The street was narrow and deserted, flanked by rows of hundred-year-old brownstones with ornate, soot-stained facades and elaborate stone staircases lined up like the teeth of a comb. Mary rarely came up to this neighborhood—she tried to avoid the Upper West Side and anything that brought her close to her own home—but she knew that all these buildings were probably filled with college students and graduate TAs and the scruffy intellectuals you always find around a big school.

Ellen’s been here, Mary had thought as she’d climbed out of the car. She knows this neighborhood—this is where she goes all the time. This is where she is whenever I can’t find her.

Dylan had double-parked down the block from his apartment, as far from the halos of the streetlights as possible. He’d hurried out of the car and come around to open Mary’s door, gently lifting her onto the sidewalk while she cried and held on to his coat for support.

My friends are gone, she kept thinking, over and over—she wouldn’t let herself think any other word, like “dead,” but she knew she was just playing word games. She had heard Joon’s body hit the water. Joon’s arms had been tied, her mouth covered, her ankles bound. The water was far, far below—it had taken a long time before Mary had heard the splash. The water must have been freezing.

She was dead. No way around it.

They’d climbed three flights of stairs and Dylan was fumbling with his keys, opening four separate locks on his apartment door and then helping Mary inside. She wandered forward while he snapped the lights on, revealing a tiny, cluttered apartment—framed posters, blond floorboards covered with tall stacks of books, a faded couch draped in macramé quilts—but it was hard for her to keep moving. There didn’t seem to be any point.

Poor Amy … poor Joon …

All she wanted to do was close her eyes and never open them again.

“Um, sit down,” Dylan offered, lunging to clear several big piles of papers from the lumpy couch. “Sit down for a second and I’ll see if I can find you some clothes.”

Mary did what she was told.

I couldn’t save either of them. I couldn’t do anything.

It’s all my fault.

At some point in any nightmare you give up—you accept your fate and hope the dream doesn’t hurt too much, that you’ll wake up before you die. But this wasn’t a dream—it was really happening.

“I’ve got a full tank of gas,” Dylan muttered while moving around his small living room. He kicked over stacks of paperbacks as he pulled open drawers, gathering things—Mary saw him collect a flashlight, grab a heavy winter coat from a cluttered closet, riffle through a desk drawer to collect a crumpled roll of twenty-dollar bills. “Gas, money, car keys …” He was still muttering, ticking off items on his fingers as he darted back and forth.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked. She hadn’t moved; she was sitting hunched over on the couch, curled around herself in the blanket she’d brought from the car. Outside, thunder crashed, rumbling through the building’s thick walls. “Dylan? What are you—”

“We’ve got to run,” Dylan told her. He had turned to face her, holding what looked like a passport case. His wet hair was sticking out in wild directions. In the yellow lamplight, she could see that his suit was ruined—his trousers were soaking wet from the thighs down, obviously from wading through the weeds at the farmhouse. “We’ve got to get out of here and run away, as fast as we can, before they find out where we—”

“Who? Before who finds out?” Mary was still shaking, and she realized it wasn’t from the cold—it was from fear. “Who’s chasing us? Is it the same people who tied up Joon and—”

“Not now!” Dylan yelled. He winced, pressed his fingers to his temples. “I’m sorry. Not now, Mary—let me just finish getting—”

“Now! Tell me now!” Mary felt her eyes filling with hot tears again as she wrenched herself to her feet, stumbling as the blanket tangled around her legs. “If you know something I don’t, then tell me right now! You said you—” Mary felt light-headed suddenly—black spots were blooming in front of her eyes and she swayed back and forth, fighting off the urge to faint. “You said you knew who was following us.”

“I’m not—I’m not sure.” Dylan kept rubbing his eyes. “I think I might remember, but it’s so confusing, like—”

“Like what?” Mary was crying again. “It’s the worst day of my life; it’s sucked since the moment I woke up. Everyone’s been out to get me, all day!”

“You sound paranoid,” Dylan said. He was shaking his head, looking more confused with each passing second. “There can’t be—”

“I’m not paranoid!” Mary yelled. Her throat ached with the strain. “What do you mean, paranoid? You’re the one acting like we’ve got to flee the fucking country!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Dylan’s face was strained; he looked down at the passport case in his hand, as if he’d just noticed it. “Jesus, this can’t be happening….”

My friends are dead, Mary thought again. It was like a soul-crushing blow that kept hitting her over and over. Both dead.

“Dylan,” Mary whispered, sniffing and wiping snot from her upper lip as she cried, “do you know what’s going on or don’t you?”

He raised his head and looked at her, his brown eyes focusing like a laser. She could see him trying to collect his thoughts, trying to be rational, not to give in to fear.

“I know part of it,” he said finally. “I know that the people chasing us are going to figure out where we are. Look, please, please just trust me for a little while longer, okay? Let me get you something to wear and then we can get out of here. Once we’re moving, I’ll try to explain what I know.”

She stared into his eyes and he returned the stare, not blinking, not moving. She couldn’t see anything in his face but honest concern—and fear.

“Okay,” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you get yourself a glass of water”—Dylan pointed toward a darkened doorway she hadn’t noticed before that led to a kitchenette—“and I’ll get you some clothes.”

She did need a glass of water. Her throat was killing her, her head was pounding and she was feeling the beginning of the brutal hangover that was going to result from all the drinks she’d had: the wine at Amy’s, which seemed like an entire lifetime ago, back before the world tilted sideways and she’d slid into this twilight realm of madness; the vodka martini Dylan had bought her; the tequila shots and champagne at her surprise birthday party. It was all catching up to her, she realized; that was most of why she felt so light-headed.

“Yeah, okay,” she said weakly, gathering the blanket and walking toward the kitchen. Dylan nodded and headed in the other direction, toward a closed door. Mary winced as her bare feet collided with the splintered floorboards and kicked more of the ubiquitous paperbacks out of the way.

Reaching through the dark kitchen doorway, she found a light switch and flipped it. After a moment, a weak fluorescent bulb sputtered to life. The kitchen was tiny—a sink full of dirty dishes, a small fridge, a row of battered metal cabinets, a calendar with a Cézanne print. The cold linoleum pressed against her feet as she headed for the sink. She picked through the dish drainer, trying to find a clean glass.

Rain was pounding against the kitchen window, behind its metal security grate. Mary filled a glass with tap water and gulped it down, gazing at the blackness beyond the windowpanes.

Lightning flashed.

Mary jumped, dropping the glass. It shattered on the floor. She nearly screamed in shock at what she saw.

Joon was outside the window.

Mary had been staring in that direction at exactly the right moment, purely by chance—the flash of lightning had illuminated Joon like a paparazzi flashbulb. Joon, just a foot away, staring right back at her—apparently suspended in midair, three floors off the ground. She was dressed exactly the same as she’d been at the farmhouse—the same Elie Saab dress and shiny headband.

The lightning flickered and flared again, like a dying lightbulb, and Mary felt a scream building in her throat as she stared into Joon’s eyes. Joon was moving—raising her hand to her face—as the lightning flashed.

Putting her finger to her lips.

Then it was dark again.

Mary’s heart was pounding in her ears, her pulse clicking in her throat like a drumbeat. Thunder boomed, a multistage staccato explosion, and Mary flinched, staring at the window in disbelief.

Did I really see that?

Mary didn’t believe in ghosts—of course she didn’t believe in ghosts. The whole concept was ridiculous.

But did I really see that?

Dylan seemed to be moving around his bedroom; she could hear the muffled creaking of the floorboards. No doubt, changing his own clothes before finding things for her to wear.

Mary walked toward the window, wincing as her feet crunched on the broken glass littering the floor. Her skin was crawling with goose bumps; her entire body felt as cold and numb as if she’d been standing in a refrigerator for hours. She got close to the window, panting as she gathered her nerve and then cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through the glass.

Someone was out there.

There was no question about it. She could see a black silhouette against the murky glow of another kitchen window, across the air shaft. The shape was moving, coming closer.

Mary fumbled with the window, her fingers straining as they twisted the soot-covered latches. The window screeched as she began lifting it, emitting a blast of cold, wet wind that blew against her body and made the blanket billow behind her.

As she struggled to lift the heavy window, she stiffened in amazement. Fingers curled around the sash—a pair of strong, slim hands, helping her get the window open.

Mary dropped to her knees, pressing her face to the opening. It was Joon—she was right there, her rain-soaked face inches away.

“Is that—” Mary cleared her throat and tried again. “Is that really you?”

“Shhh,” Joon whispered. Mary could see small bands of blackened adhesive around her cheeks and chin, from where the gag had been taped. Joon reached through the opening they’d made and clutched Mary’s hand. Mary squeezed back. The feel of Joon’s warm skin was making her cry all over again. “Be quiet—he’ll hear you.”

“But how—”

“Don’t trust him,” Joon whispered urgently. She kept squeezing Mary’s hand through the five-inch gap they’d pried open, but Mary could see red welts around Joon’s wrists. From the ropes, she realized. When she was tied up. “Please—you’ve got to get out of there.”

“But—”

“Just listen,” Joon hissed. She was peering past Mary’s shoulder, trying to see into Dylan’s living room. Mary realized that Joon wasn’t floating in midair at all—she was crouching on the cast-iron fire escape. She must have climbed up, from the alleyway below. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

“What? No—”

Joon and Amy had helped her get dressed, hours before, she remembered—it seemed like another lifetime. “He’s getting—Dylan said he’d get me something to wear.”

“Good. Take the clothes. Get dressed,” Joon whispered urgently, “and then get out of that apartment and down the stairs. I’ll come around and meet you.”

“But how did you—” There were millions of questions she wanted to ask. She heard Dylan’s bedroom door swing open and his footsteps on the floorboards. He was coming back into the living room.

Joon raised her finger to her lips again.

Mary nodded. She squeezed Joon’s hand—Joon squeezed back and then receded into the dark rain.

“Did I hear something break?”

Dylan’s voice, behind her.

She rose to her feet just as he came into the kitchen. “Sorry,” she told him—he was staring at the broken glass all over the floor. His eyes moved to the open window, where a thin ribbon of cold air was blowing inside. “I dropped the glass. I started to feel faint and I—I needed some air, so I—”

“Are you all right?” Dylan was looking at the streaks of blood she’d left on the floor. “Do you want a bandage or—”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Mary said. Walking wasn’t as difficult as she was afraid it might be; luckily, she didn’t seem to have any glass shards embedded in the soles of her feet. “Did you find anything for me to wear?”

(Don’t trust him.)

“I put it in the bathroom. Just some old stuff—it probably won’t fit you.”

Dylan frowned. He looked down at the broken glass and then over at the window again. Obviously, he felt like he was missing something—she could see it in his face.

He’s smart, she thought. He’s really smart—remember that, if you’re going to try to fake him out.

“Thanks,” Mary said. She got past him as fast as she could, nearly tripping on the blanket—again—as she hurried through the living room and furtively grabbed her BlackBerry from the couch. The bathroom was right next to Dylan’s front door; she could see a pair of jeans and a T-shirt folded on the closed toilet seat, with a pair of sneakers placed on top of them. “Just give me a minute,” she called out, getting in the bathroom as fast as she could and swinging the door shut.

MARY UNLATCHED THE BATHROOM door as quietly as she could, gently pulled it open and peered out. She had stripped off her ruined clothes, dropping her underwear and the sodden green rags that had once been a $2,300 dress onto the cold tiles, and pulled on the jeans and T-shirt, bareback, no underwear. Nothing fit, at all—she’d had to roll up the cuffs and cinch the jeans around her small waist with the belt Dylan had provided. Finally, she pulled the shapeless, lumpy-looking sweater over herself and slipped her feet into the sneakers. Her BlackBerry and keys slid easily into the oversize jeans pocket. She had given herself just twenty seconds to splash water on her face and pull her hair back, tying it in a rough knot, before opening the door.

Peering through the crack, she could see Dylan’s back as he stooped over his coffee table zipping up an overnight bag. He’d put on his big winter coat—another one was draped on the couch, obviously intended for her.

Now or never.

Mary pulled the bathroom door all the way open, wincing at the creaking hinges. She walked as gently as she could, not breathing as she approached the front door. She could hear Dylan packing behind her as she gently twisted the brass knobs on the locks, trying to keep them from snapping. Incredibly, he hadn’t noticed—he was moving back toward the kitchen as she threw the final lock and pulled on the door.

It wouldn’t move.

Come on, come on, Mary thought frantically as she strained against whatever maddening force—warped wood or sticky old paint—was holding the door closed. Finally the door gave with a loud pop and a low-pitched creak as she pulled it open. Her heart racing, she slipped her body sideways and, with the latches catching on Dylan’s sweater, she pulled herself out into the stairwell and eased the door shut.

Mary actually thought she was going to make it. It was ten or twelve feet along the filthy metal railing to the top of the stairs. Then three flights down, if she remembered right. But she didn’t get far at all.

The sneakers weren’t laced and didn’t fit right. She stumbled and fell forward against the stairwell railing, nearly bashing her face against the banister. Dylan’s door burst open and he ran out after her. She wailed in fear, her soles slipping on the tiled floor as she desperately tried to pull herself upright.

Too late; no use. Dylan was right there—he reached down and grabbed her, snagging his arm around her waist.

“No!” Mary panted. Black spots began to fill her vision. “No, no, no—”

“Where are you going?” Dylan was fighting to keep his grip on her. She bucked and twisted. Everything was growing dim. “Why are you running away?”

No, no, no—

She was fainting—there was no question about it. The world was fading, turning black, like the end of a movie. She kept struggling, but her arms and legs would barely move; she was getting weaker and weaker.

“Mary?”

Dylan’s voice, from miles and miles away. The darkness was washing over her like tar, drowning her in oblivion.

Stay awake … stay awake …

It was hopeless. She tried to rally her strength, but there wasn’t anything left. Mary felt her eyelids fluttering and then—