I take the chicken out of the oven and pour myself a second glass of sauvignon blanc. Good for me, it’s nine P.M. and I’m only at glass number two. After what I’ve seen today, this second glass is well deserved and I take a deep gulp. The alcohol flames its way through my blood like a kerosene fire, but even as my tension melts away, I’m still thinking about the dead woman. Was she young or old? Pretty or plain?

Why has no one reported her missing?

If I tumbled down the stairs and broke my neck tonight, how long would it take for anyone to miss me? Eventually Donna Branca would notice, of course, but only because she’d miss my monthly rent check. People always take notice when you don’t pay your bills, but that could take weeks. By then my body would be well on its way to decay.

Or eaten by my cat, I think, as Hannibal hops up onto the dining table and stares at the slices of chicken on my plate.

Third glass of wine. I’ve been trying to cut down, but tonight I don’t care whether I’ve had too much. Who’s here to see me, scold me? Only Lucy ever really cared enough to get in my face about my drinking, but she’s not here to protect me from myself, as she’s always done.

I sit at the table and stare down at my meal, so perfectly presented: slices of chicken drizzled with gravy made from drippings and white wine. Roasted new potatoes. A salad tossed with fresh-baked croutons and Spanish olive oil.

Lucy’s favorite dinner. The same dinner I cooked for her birthday.

I can see them again, both smiling at me across the table. Lucy and Nick, their wineglasses raised in a toast to the chef. “If ever I have to choose a final meal, I want it to be cooked by Ava,” Lucy said. And then we went around the table, each of us talking about what we’d choose for our last meals. Lucy’s would be “Ava’s roast chicken.” Mine would be a rustic cacio e pepe with a glass of crisp, chilled Frascati. Nick’s choice was beef, of course. “A rib-eye steak, medium rare. No, make it beef Wellington! If it’s my last meal, why not get a little fancy?” he’d said, and we’d all laughed because even though Nick had never eaten beef Wellington, he thought it sounded delicious.

    If only I could go back to that birthday dinner, a night when we were all together and happy. Now I sit alone in this cavernous house. If I die here alone, I have only myself to blame.

I leave my scarcely touched dinner on the table, pick up the bottle, and carry it upstairs with me. The wine’s no longer cold but I’m beyond caring how it tastes. I crave only the oblivion it offers. Up in my bedroom I finish off the bottle and flop onto the mattress. Dead woman in the water, drunk woman in the bedroom.

I turn off the light and stare at the darkness. The ocean is restless tonight and I hear waves pounding the rocks. A storm far off at sea has generated those waves, and here they come rolling in, crashing against the cliffs with wind-driven fury. The sound is so unnerving that I rise to close the window, but even then I still hear those waves. I can smell them too, a scent so powerful that I feel I’m drowning. That’s when I suddenly realize: He is here.

I turn from the window. Jeremiah Brodie stands before me.

“You have been with a man today,” he says.

“How do you…”

“You carry his scent.”

“He’s just a friend. I went out on his sailboat.”

He moves closer and I shiver as he lifts a strand of my hair and lets it glide through his fingers. “You were close enough to touch.”

“Yes, but—”

“Close enough to be tempted.”

“It was just a kiss. It meant nothing.”

“Yet I sense your guilt.” He is so close now, I can feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “Your shame.”

“Not about that. Not about today.”

    “You have cause to feel shame.”

I stare into his eyes, which reflect the cold and pitiless gleam of starlight. His words have nothing to do with Ben Gordon and our innocent kiss. No, this is about what happened before I came to Maine. This is about New Year’s Eve and the sin for which I will never forgive myself. What he smells on my skin is the permanent stench of guilt.

“You allowed him to touch you.”

“Yes.”

“Defile you.”

I blink back tears. “Yes.”

“You desired it. You desired him.”

“I never meant it to happen. If I could go back to that night, if I could live it again—”

“But you cannot. That is why I’m here.”

I stare into those diamond-bright eyes. I hear righteous judgment in his voice and the promise of what will come. My heart pounds and my hands shake. For days I’ve longed for his return, hungered for his touch. Now that he stands before me, I am afraid of what awaits me.

“To the turret,” he commands.

My legs are unsteady as I walk out of the bedroom. Is it from drinking too much wine or is it fear that makes me stumble in the hallway? The floor feels like ice beneath my bare feet, and the damp air penetrates straight through my nightgown. I open the door to the staircase and halt, gazing up at the flickering candlelight above.

I stand at the threshold of his world. With each step I climb, I leave my own world farther and farther behind.

Up the stairs I go, the candlelight growing ever brighter. He is at my heels, his boot steps heavy and inexorable on the steps, preventing my retreat. There is only one direction I can go, and I ascend toward the room where I know both pleasure and punishment await.

    At the top of the stairs, I swing the door wide open and step through, into the turret. Golden candlelight washes over me and I look down to see the skirt of coppery silk swishing at my ankles. No longer do I feel the night’s chill; a fire burns in the hearth, its flames licking at birch logs. The light of a dozen candles flickers in wall sconces and in the sea windows I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. The gown molds itself to my hips and my ivory-white breasts swell above the low-cut bodice.

I am in his world. His time.

He crosses to the curtained alcove. Already I know what lies behind those drapes. I have lain spread-eagled on that bed, felt the pleasure of his brutal attentions. But when he slides open the curtain, this time he reveals more than a bed, and I shrink away.

He holds out his hand. “Come, Ava.”

“What will you do to me?”

“What would you have me do?”

“You’re going to hurt me.”

“Is that not what you deserve?”

I do not have to answer him; he already knows that I can never punish myself enough for what has happened. He knows that guilt and shame are what have led me to this house, and to him. That I deserve whatever torment he chooses to deliver.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper.

“But you are also tempted, are you not?” I flinch as he reaches out to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand. “Have I not taught you that pain is merely the other face of pleasure? That a cry of agony sounds no different from a cry of ecstasy? Tonight you will enjoy both, without guilt, without blame, because I am the one in command. Do you not feel yourself craving it, longing for it? Are you not already wet, your body preparing itself to accommodate what is to come?”

Even as he speaks, I feel heat building between my legs, the ache of a hollow crying out to be filled.

He reaches for my hand. Willingly I take it.

    We cross the room and I step into the alcove and stare at the wrist shackles dangling from the beam overhead. But those shackles are not what frighten me. No, what scares me is what I see displayed on the wall. Leather whips. A riding crop. An array of billy clubs.

He tugs me toward the shackles and closes the manacle over my left wrist.

There is no going back now. I am at his mercy.

He grasps my right hand and efficiently snaps the second manacle around it. I stand with both my hands shackled over my head as he studies his prisoner, savoring my helplessness. Slowly he walks behind me and, with no warning, rips open the back of my gown, exposing my back. With the gentlest of touches, he strokes down my skin and I shudder.

I do not see him reach for the whip.

The first crack of leather against my back is so shocking, I jerk against the manacles. My skin throbs from the sting of the leather.

“Is this not what you deserve?”

“Stop. Please—”

“Tell the truth. Confess your shame.” Again the whip cracks. Again I scream and writhe from its bite.

“Confess.”

The third lash of the whip makes me sob. “I confess,” I cry out. “I am guilty, but I never meant for it to happen. I never wanted—”

The next lash makes my knees buckle. I sag, my body suspended by those merciless manacles.

He leans in close and whispers into my ear, “But you did want it, Ava. Didn’t you?”