Page 27 of The Shape of Night

So I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of whiskey. And then another.

The second bottle is nearly empty. When I moved into Brodie’s Watch, this bottle was full; have I really gone through all the whiskey that quickly? I know I should limit myself to one drink, but after this truly disturbing day, I need a comforting sip. I carry my glass and the bottle with its last few inches of whiskey and head upstairs.

In my bedroom, I cannot help but scan the room as I unbutton my blouse and slide off my blue jeans. Standing in only my underwear, I feel exposed, although there is no one else here. No one, at least, that I can see. The ocean is restless tonight, and through the open window I hear the swoosh of waves rolling ashore. Black as oil, the sea stretches out to a starlit horizon. Although my room looks out over deserted cliffs and water, I understand why Charlotte wanted curtains over this window. The night itself seems to have eyes that can see me, standing here framed in the light.

I turn off the lamp and let darkness cloak me. No longer do I feel exposed as I stand at the window, letting the cool air wash over my skin. I will miss this when I return to Boston, these nights of falling asleep to the sound of the waves, the salt air on my skin. What if I never go home to the city? Lately this possibility has been on my mind more and more. After all, I can work anywhere, write anywhere; I have burned my bridges in Boston, carelessly torched my old life like a drunken arsonist. Why not stay here in Tucker Cove, in this house?

I pull on my nightgown, and as it slips over my head, I glimpse a flicker of light beyond my window. It flares for just an instant, then vanishes.

I stare out at the night. I know there is nothing out there but the cliff and the sea—where did that light come from? I’m invisible in my dark bedroom, but only moments ago, anyone watching this window would have seen me standing here undressed, and the thought makes me back away, deeper into the gloom. Then I see more flashes of light, bobbing like a cinder adrift in the wind. It floats past the window and winks away into the night.

A firefly.

I sip my whiskey and think of other warm summer nights when Lucy and I would chase fireflies on our grandparents’ farm. Running through a meadow that glittered with a thousand stars, we’d swing our nets and trap entire galaxies in Mason jars. Back to the farmhouse we’d go, like twin fairies carrying our firefly lanterns. The memory is so vivid I can feel the grass tickling my feet, and once again I hear the creak of the screen door as we stepped back into the house. I remember how we stayed awake half the night, marveling at the lights whirling inside our jars, one on her nightstand, the other on mine. A matched pair, like Lucy and me.

The way we used to be.

I empty the last of the whiskey into my glass, gulp it down, and stretch out on the bed.

It’s now the fourth night since Captain Brodie last appeared. I’ve lain awake for far too many hours, plagued by doubts that he exists. Wondering if my sanity has finally cracked. Today, when I visited the ghost hunter, what I’d wanted most was her reassurance that I’m not delusional, that what I’ve experienced is real. Now my doubts are back.

God, I need to sleep. What I would give for just one good night’s sleep. I’m tempted to go down to the kitchen and open a new bottle of wine. Another glass or two might quiet this electric hum in my brain.

Hannibal, lying beside me on the bed, suddenly lifts his head. His tufted ears are pricked up and alert as he stares toward the open window. I see nothing unusual there, no telltale swirl of mist, no thickening shadow.

I climb out of bed and gaze out at the sea. “Come back to me,” I plead. “Please come back.”

A touch grazes my arm, but surely it’s just my imagination. Has my desperate longing for company conjured up a ghostly caress from the mere whisper of a breeze? But now I feel the warm weight of a hand resting on my shoulder. I turn andthere he is,standing face-to-face with me. As real as any man can be.

I blink away tears. “I thought I would never see you again.”

“You have missed me.”

“Yes.”

“How much, Ava?”

I sigh and close my eyes as his fingers stroke down my cheek. “God, so much. You’re all I think about. All I…”

“Desire?”

The question, asked so softly, sends a sudden thrill through me. I open my eyes and look at a face obscured by shadow. In the starlight I see only the sharp cliff of his nose, the jutting cheekbones. What more does the darkness hide?

“Do you desire me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He strokes my face, and although his fingers are gentle, my skin feels scorched by his touch. “And you will submit?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know what he wants, but I am ready to say yes. To anything.

“What would you have me do?” I ask.

“As much as you are willing.”

“Tell me.”

“You are no virgin. You have known men.”

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