And then silence.

My head swam in a sudden rush of understanding. I moved the branches of the bushes aside to be sure: the shape of a torso; arms; the back of a head.

A man.

A sound escaped my throat. I stepped back. Closed my eyes. Took a breath.

Sometimes, when I wake, the two worlds combine—the dream and reality. An echo of one in the other. And so it’s possible the body is a figment, and I can walk it back, retrace my steps, climb backward into bed, and in the morning there will be nothing here, just a lingering sense of doom. A shudder as I walk to my car; the ghost of a memory.

But it’s the wind that made me sure. Moving the blades of grass in a symphony over my toes, something greater than my imagination. A chaos beyond the reach of my mind.

My eyes shot open, burning in the night wind.

How long had I been standing here? How long ago had this happened?

I looked down at my hands again, understanding without seeing—they were red.

Behind me, the front door gaped open across my yard, a darkness inside.

But when I started running, I instinctively headed the other way. Passing the body in the yard. Through the tree line. Tripping over the hedges as I ran. For Rick’s.

Because when I’d gone to him about the snake last year, before he’d declared it harmless, he’d come over with a shotgun. Tried to give it to me after, with his shaking hand. Said he was too slow to get to it should he need it now, inside the locked case, and anyway, he had another. I couldn’t take it; didn’t know how to use it.

But Rick’s house was safety. He would know what to do.

And when he opened the door, he did, right away. He took one look at me, and I peered over my shoulder to try to get him to understand. “There’s a man—outside—”

I held up my palms; the red was so bright in the open doorway. His eyes scanned over me quickly, and he looked at my hands again, at my mouth—“Rick, help”—and he seemed to understand then that it wasn’t me who was hurt. He took me by the sleeve and pulled me across the threshold, and he closed and locked the door, and it was too warm inside, but I was safe.

I was shaken and dirty, and Rick looked out the front window. Looked hard into the darkness, his fingers trembling against the window frame, his breath fogging up the glass. He stared for a long time, not going for the gun, not going for the phone, and I waited, because he would know what to do.

Rick turned around, eyes glazed. But he seemed to be looking beyond me, somewhere.

And he said, in a voice I’d never heard before, “Wash your hands.”

TRANSCRIPT FROM INTERVIEW WITH DR. PAUL PARSONS, DIRECTOR OF LONGBRANCH SLEEP CLINIC

OCTOBER 19, 2000

It’s a common occurrence in children. Most will outgrow it. For parents, if you witness or suspect that your child is sleepwalking, there are some things you can do to protect them.

Put a bell on their door, something to wake you. Try to limit the amount of furniture or fragile items in the room with them, so they won’t accidentally get hurt.

What happened to the Maynor girl was an accident. A tragic accident. And sometimes, despite our best intentions, accidents happen anyway.

Most times an episode passes with no incident. There are, of course, other disorders to be aware of. Episodes that veer more actively and dangerously than merely walking in your sleep. True sleepwalking mostly tends to mimic basic things you have already done.

But if your child seems to be acting out their dreams, running, fighting . . . that’s not sleepwalking. That’s evidence of another type of disorder.

That’s when you should be concerned. That’s when they could be a danger to themselves or others.

CHAPTER 7

Saturday, 2 a.m.

RICK LEFT WITH A yellow flashlight and nothing else. No knife, no gun, no means of protection. Just a look over his shoulder and a glance toward my hands: “Now,” he said.

I stumbled toward the hall bathroom, which I had used only once before.

There was peeling yellow wallpaper behind the mirror, the green stems of the flowers gone gray from humidity. The shower faucet behind the curtain was dripping, and the second door connecting the bathroom to the bedroom was slightly ajar.

In the silence, I tallied the ways out: the door I’d just come through; the door leading to his bedroom, the windows beyond the bed—which was made. Insomnia, I was guessing. The pale light always shining from his house, even in the dead of night.

In the garish bathroom light, my hands looked almost comical. Theatrical. And I had to use my elbow to turn on the faucet. My hands were shaking, even though the water was on hot, the red swirling down. I couldn’t feel the temperature until it was already scalding, and I yanked my hands back—a baby pink.

As the water circled, I imagined the shadow again. The shape of the body. The stillness. What Rick might see.

The beam of the flashlight sweeping the earth. His footsteps approaching—

I closed my eyes. Maybe I was wrong, the scene too dark and fractured. Maybe whoever lay out there was just injured, bleeding. Passed out drunk.

I waited as the water ran cooler, rubbed soap up my arms to my elbows, scraped my fingernails against one another. Until there was no more visible blood, just the scent of vanilla, so thick it was almost cloying.

I scanned the rest of my body for signs; my hands were clean. Turning them over: a small nick near my wrist, barely visible. Clean shirt. Dark pants. A tear at the knee; stiffness settling in. I sat on the edge of the tub, rolling up the leg of my loose pajama pants. A gash running down the kneecap.

I pressed a stack of toilet paper against the cut, trying to stop the blood, then opened the cabinet under the sink, looking for a bandage. An amber prescription bottle, a pair of nail clippers, a pile of towels. A small trash can and something wedged beside it, in the corner. Something black and metal—

I leaned closer, nudging the garbage can aside.

The metal fell with a clunk, and I jumped back, pulse racing.

A gun.

A gun, hidden. Not one of his shotguns, locked up in a safe down the hall. But kept here. Four steps from his bedroom. Three steps from his living room. So he could get to it fast, should he need it.

I heard Rick’s footsteps coming up the porch again, slow and steady. Behind the trash can, there was a roll of black electrical tape. I tore off a piece with my teeth, wrapped it over my knee, pulled the fabric back down my leg.

I looked fine. Everything was fine.

The sound of the front door opening and closing, footsteps pausing for a moment at the entrance. Like the danger had passed.

Had he nudged the man with his toe, gotten him to wake, gotten him back on his feet, walking him to his car—

Had there been a car?

I hadn’t noticed. Had I even looked?

I remembered the light from Rick’s, the darkness of my own house. The open doorway. I didn’t remember a car . . .

Footsteps again, and then a tap at the bathroom door.

“Liv? You okay?”

“Just a minute,” I said. I eased the cabinet door closed, holding my breath.

“Liv. I’m going to have to call the police now.”

A pause. And then: “Okay,” I said, speaking to my own reflection. Not a call for help. The police, he said.

He was dead.