Page 43 of The New Couple in 5B

Then a creaking noise off to the right catches our attention. That music—melodic and echoing—carries from someplace else in the building. Light floods in the high windows. Outside, a truck rumbles up the street.

“Dana?” I call, a tingling on my skin. Max and I both stand frozen, listening. We’re in the middle of the city. Why does it feel like we’re on the moon?

But there’s no answer. Just that strange creaking noise.

“You know what?” says Max, grabbing my wrist. “I’m suddenly thinking this was a bad idea. Let’s just—go.”

But I’m already walking toward the sound, past more photographs of cityscapes, still-life images of sharp objects like knives, scissors, cleavers. There are images of children who look like Dana—a slim boy with inquiring eyes. A fiery young girl with freckles and a searing, knowing stare. No way they’re not her children; the resemblance is so strong. Did I know that she has kids?

To my right, there’s a small office with a simple desk, laptop open. On the desk lies what I guess must be her phone. It’s ringing, vibrating on the surface. I leave it unanswered.

To my left, a doorway stands open to reveal an old-school darkroom. The light inside glows red. Inside are processing tables, trays filled with liquid. A strong chemical smell emanates. There’s a ticking clock, a sign that reads Burn Tools, one that reads Dodge Tools. From the ceiling hang arcs of clotheslines.

Photographs hang to dry, fluttering in the draft.

I move in closer to see what’s there.

My shoulders hike with tension. More images of my husband.

He waits on a subway platform, reading a paper. I squint for a date but it’s not legible, too grainy. He’s smart in slim black jeans and leather jacket. In the next photo, he stands at a light, waiting to cross the street. His brow wrinkles in a frown, which I must say is rare. He seems deep in thought, his hair longer than he’s kept it since I’ve known him. I move closer. He’s in a café, sitting in a window seat with a woman whose face is not visible in the frame, their fingers woven together. His ring hand is not visible, either. An ex? They are legion.

The final image brings a gasp to my throat. It’s all shadows and purple light, a man leans over a woman who is pressed against a wall, other forms, just shadows, populate the image—a bar or a nightclub. I can’t see his face, but I recognize his carriage. The woman is unrecognizable as she was in my brief but vivid vision in the Aldridges’ hallway. It’s the same scene. I can almost feel the throb of the music. How is that possible?

You’ve seen this before, my father would say.The image keeps coming back to you for a reason. It means something.

Coincidence, Dr. Black would counter.Perhaps you’ve seen this image before. It was ingrained in your memory, maybe bringing up your insecurities about how women respond to your husband, a deep-seated worry that you’re not enough for him.

I stare a moment, decide to side with Dr. Black. Reason is solid beneath my feet. All the rest of it is a spiral into madness.

Clearly, Dana was following my husband. For a long time, it seems. She was literally stalking him. Why? What else did she find? What has she called me up here to say?

That strange creaking, it’s coming from the end of the hall where a door stands ajar. There’s a draft, the cold air touching my skin. The walls seem very white, the floor steel gray, the hard surface echoing beneath my boot heels.

“Rosie, I’m getting an Uber,” says Max, still in the gallery. “This place is creeping me out.”

I hear his footfalls grow fainter.

The body knows.

My breath grows shallow, and my nerve endings vibrate like guitar strings.

Energy in the air moves through your cells. It’s not magic. It’s biology.

I keep walking toward that door.

The ancient things—fear, grief, pain, danger—they live in our neurons, respond to those signals on the air.

“Dana?”

At the door, I pause. That creaking, slow and long.

A draft whistles through the opening. Feeling alone, I glance back down the long corridor. No Max. The music is coming from the other side of the door, ambient and electronic, soothing, like something you’d hear in a spa. I push the door open, and it swings wide, air rushing out.

I almost don’t see her at first,can’tsee her. As if it’s too much for my psyche.

She’s stylish in black leather pants and thigh-high boots; an oversize sweater drapes off one pale shoulder. Her hands are frozen at her throat, as if she was clawing against the rope around her neck. Eyes wide in fear and pain, mouth agape.

Dana.

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