A breeze blew across the lake and seemed to curl up in the canoe with Nick. He shuddered and turned his attention to his other wrist.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Alex

  "Honey," Alex said in a sing-songy voice, a smile stretching across his perfect teeth, "I'm home. I trust you had a wonderful day, my Darling," he said, loud enough that it should be heard and responded to.

  When it wasn't, he stood stock-still, waiting. Of course, Mary would come to the door and greet him. Of course, she would take his coat and hat and kiss him on the cheek. Of course, she would forget all about that nasty business with Nick and have realized that she was exactly where she belonged now. She knew she was home. Surely.

  She really had no choice.

  He looked down at the smartphone in his hand. The app that allowed him to control the doors and lights was still up. He had fun turning them on and off. He could just imagine how powerful she must think he is, controlling the house from outside of it. And he was, too. A big powerful man. He could tell her in detail how strong he was, dragging that useless body all the way down to the lake. She would be so impressed, so enthralled. She would, of course, offer to rub his sore muscles. And, of course, that would lead to more. But not yet.

  Right now, he had to make sure she understood. She was such a fragile little flower; he needed to make sure she knew just how much he loved her. Just how much he had done for her. Telling her about the television had been delicious. It must have blown her little mind to know how much work he had put into it, how long he had planned it, how much effort he had given before she even came to live with him.

  He slipped the phone back into his briefcase. It was always on silent, as soon as he left work, but he kept it on, just in case he needed it. It had caused considerable difficulty in the last six months with producers and agents all wanting to get ahold of him at various times of the evening. He had taken to working long hours in the study, texting them back or telling them that he was off. He couldn't risk his lovely wife overhearing those conversations. They would just confuse her.

  Stepping over the threshold, he noticed something was wrong. He could just see into the kitchen and noticed the phone, hanging off the wall, the cord exposed. That was so unlike her. The house was always kept neat as a pin, even impressing Alex himself, who was notoriously tidy. There was even a cup in the sink. It was positively jarring to see such wanton dereliction of her duties. He would have to have a stern talk with her later. Perhaps just before dinner. That way they could make up over dessert. He might even kiss her on the top of her head and tell her everything will be fine. Yes. That would be how he would handle it. A stern, guiding hand, followed by a comforting embrace. That was the order of things.

  A step into the kitchen revealed more than he had ever feared. The table in the dining room was askew. A chair had been moved out of place. Further in, he could see his bookshelf in the living room. Books had fallen down on the third row, and his bust of Alfred Hitchcock must be on the floor somewhere. Perhaps she had been so shocked by what he had shown her on television she simply fell apart. That was the only possible explanation for such a terrible state.

  Either that or she was testing him. Testing boundaries that she knew she should not test. Seeing where his temper lay. If so, he would have to show her exactly how much he cared for her by exerting his natural dominion over her as her husband. It wouldn't be pleasurable, not for her, and only a little for him. But it would be needed. She had to see that there was no room for that kind of rebellion. That kind of life only lead to chaos and worry and unseemliness. He wouldn’t stand for that. She had been so close to the perfect wife up to now, and now she would truly be.

  "Darling," he called out, in a tone that he hoped suggested worry and disappointment in one, "I see quite a mess. Are you not feeling well?"

  It was giving her an out, he realized, but if she said that she was unwell, perhaps he could let it slide.

  He was met with silence. A few steps further revealed a mess he had certainly not anticipated. His study door, which he locked with the app before heading back, was standing open. There was a hole in the door just below the knob, and blood streamed down from it.

  "Darling," he said, his voice rising in both volume and concern, "you must be hurt. Come to me and let me help you."

  More silence. Not even breathing. The buzzing in his ears and tingling on his skin was swelling again, taking over like it had beside the lake. She was hiding from him. How dare she?

  Striding to the door, he swung it open. The room was as it always was, spotless. Except the phone. The ornate phone on his desk, the one with the separate line so he could speak to others without his wife listening in. The receiver was sitting on his desk, off the cradle. He walked up to it and hung it up.

  She had touched his things. She had violated his trust and gone into his study, his one room of the home that was his alone, that he mostly kept up himself, his solitude, the place where he read, she had gone in there and touched his things. She had meddled. She had broken rules. She had disobeyed.

  She was to be punished.

  He took off out of the room, pounding his feet as he ran. It shook the house, but that was what he wanted. He wanted her to hear him coming. To fear the wrath of him. She had to know what she did was wrong, and that whatever was to become of her now was of her own doing.

  He threw open the nursery door. It seemed empty, but there was always one place. Opening the closet door, he cringed when he saw the bent wallpaper and the open door. A fresh wave of disappointment and anger surged through him at the reminder of Mary’s betrayal. He ducked down to look into it, expecting to find her cowering in the corner, adding herself to the remnants already.

  The clothes, the jewelry, the pictures of the failures of before were still there. Nothing was gone, but she wasn’t there.

  Stomping away from the nursery, he began making his way for the bedroom. She might be there, waiting for him, ready to try to calm him down. She might even be in bed. He didn't know if that would work, but if she was going to try it, he would play along.

  He opened the door to more silence. She wasn't there, he could tell. There was no space to hide in that room. He still ducked down to look under the dresser and behind the nightstand. He was about to call for her again when he heard a sound above him. In the attic.

  Alex snuck down the hall, reaching up for the string that pulled open the trap door for the attic. How did she get up there and pull it closed? Sly little minx, she is. A little more of a handful now than she was before. That would have to change. Pulling down the steps carefully, so as to not make noise, he began to ascend to the attic.

  It was cold up here without the benefit of the furnace pumping hot air into it and smelled like cardboard and unfinished wood and paint cans. He worked his way up the stairs until he was standing on the top step. Looking around, he saw nothing but shadows, but he swore he heard her up here. There weren't mice, or critters, not here. They never made it into this neighborhood. Turning his head, he looked for any movement, any change of light, listened for any sound.

  "Darling, I need to speak with you," he said evenly, hoping to lure her out.

  If he kept himself level, she wouldn't know how angry he was with her. If she would just confess and apologize, he wouldn't need to punish her too badly.

  "Darling?" he asked. A sound from behind him made him turn. For a brief second, he saw the face of Alfred Hitchcock, and then nothingness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nick

  Nick struggled against the rope again. It was useless. No matter how much fluid built up, water, sweat, blood, none of it was enough to get his wrist through. It was tied tight. He was trapped.

  His body was shivering now, the cold seeping deep down into his bones. He couldn't tell if it was just because he was wet and cold, or if it was the loss of blood or a combination of both, but he knew he was starting to fade. So much energy was being wasted by shaking. So much breath being shot out of his lungs. Breath he would need, if for nothing else than to make his life last a few seconds longer.

  But maybe not. Maybe he should just yell out and get all the air out before he sinks. Then take a big deep breath as soon as he was under. Go ahead. Get it all out of the way. Be done with it quickly. It had to be better than the slow suffering. It had to be easier. Faster. He wondered if it would count as a suicide then. If he would meet his maker and they would chide him for not fighting harder for his life.

  Maybe. His life wasn't the one he was worried about, though. Liza's was. She had to live with that monster. She was going to be his prisoner. His slave. Or he would kill her. He couldn't just let that happen. He had to try with every single second, with every single precious breath in his body to escape. He pulled again, letting out a roar of effort as his muscles tensed, and his body bowed under the effort. He had such little strength left, and he gathered it all for this moment.

  Something gave. Not much, but a little. His right arm felt looser. Maybe he had a shot. Maybe he could escape.

  The canoe tipped. It had taken on a lot of water. It began to fill one whole side. It was going to sink. He didn't have time.

  Liza

  I break through the front door of the house. The long hallway greets me again, and I run down it, tears streaming down my face in spite of myself. I don't want to cry. I want to find Nick. I am terrified, but it’s rage that’s making the back of my neck hot and my stomach hard with tension. Everything is a blur. I have to find him. I have to find a way out. I make it to the far door and burst through onto the porch.

  Everything goes dizzy on me. Just being outside, for only the second time in six months, is disorienting. My legs feel weak, and it feels like my knees might buckle. I grab ahold of the railing for the porch and try to steady myself. Deep breaths fill my lungs, and I try to focus on one point in the distance. I choose the rose bushes. My vision blurs in and out and then starts to steady itself. I feel like someone blew a balloon up inside of my skull. Purple spots are dancing in front of my eyes, and every breath hitches as I take a few experimental steps forward.

  I don't fall. I have to keep pushing, then. I try to breathe deeply through my nose and out of my mouth. Walking more than running, I go down the steps and onto the grass. The feeling stops me. I can feel the grass, cut short and prickly, between my toes. I remember this feeling from so many times before, but to feel it now is exhilarating. It reminds me that the agoraphobia, what locked me inside that house for so long, wasn't real. It wasn't mine. It was all a story, crafted for me so that I wouldn't leave. I squish my toes down again, and the world seems to focus clearly. The fear of being outside is gone now.

  Only the fear of losing Nick is left.

  I look back ahead to the house across the street with the blue shutters. My feet begin to sprint toward it, and I am soon on the pavement. It feels wrong, but I don't have time to examine it. It feels more giving than usual. Springier. I make it to the house and pound on the door. The door opens beneath my fists, and I hesitate.

  Stepping over the threshold, my heart catches in my throat. I can't comprehend what I am seeing. The stairs, so clearly seen from outside, they lead to nothing. The whole upper part of the house just isn’t there. Each room, which looks so neat from the outside, only has half of the furniture in some places. An entire wall is just wallpaper, patterned to look like a countertop with a microwave and a stove and a window. It's a facade. The whole house is a facade.

  I go back outside and stand in the grass to look at it. Again, something doesn’t feel right under my feet. I look down and realize I'm not standing on grass. I'm standing on turf. It's fake. The neighborhood is fake. All fake houses except his. I run to the next-door neighbor's house and see it’s the same. Frantic, I look around for something, anything that I can use to defend myself if he wakes up. My eyes find a pile of sports equipment by a garage door. A baseball, two mitts. And a bat. Never touched. Props.

  I pick up the bat and run to the back of the house, stopping cold when I look back at the house that confined me. I am seeing the backyard now. There is no lake. No water. No area for children to play. Just a short yard with another small rosebush. So small it is barely a yard.

  Everything was a lie.

  "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarling," comes a voice from everywhere. It's him. Alex. His voice seems to boom from every house, every streetlamp, every fencepost. "Don’t worry, Darling. I’m coming. You won’t be alone for long. Don’t be afraid. I’ll bring you home.”

  Alex

  Waking up on the floor, blood trickling down his head, was not what Alex expected. It had been a long day, and this was just an ungrateful, disrespectful end. Not to mention the larger problem of Mary's apparent rebelliousness, just the fact that his whole day was nearly ruined was enough to set him on the warpath. He was going to go easy on her before. Not anymore. Her discipline would have to be much more intense. But it was for her own good.

  And at the very least, for his.

  "Darling?" he shouted to an empty house. "Great," he muttered, placing one hand on his knee to push himself up.

  Blood stained his shirt, his favorite shirt, and he wondered if Mary would be able to get it out. Of course she would. She had nothing but time to work on it for him. After all, there was still time before Christmas.

  Standing, he took a step forward and almost went down again. He wasn't even in control of his own body. He had lost some blood and stood up too fast, and now was woozy. She was out there somewhere. Maybe even outside of the house.

  Pulling out the phone from his pocket, he opened the app his team designed for him to help him manage his sets. Navigating to the right option, he put the speaker to his lips.

  "Darling," he said, drawing the word out long, "Don’t worry, Darling. I’m coming. You won’t be alone for long. Don’t be afraid. I’ll bring you home.”

  Even inside the house, the speakers boomed his voice out. He had spent a lot of money on those speakers, wiring them himself all throughout the soundstage before he built a single plot. He needed to be able to communicate with the entire town at a moment's notice.

  "I’m coming, Darling. Just wait where you are. I’ll be there soon.”

  Oh, the dreams he had, and the plans he had made. It could have been perfect.

  It still could.

  Yes, he had to tell himself that. All was not lost. Mary no longer had Nick to worry about. She was free. She just needed to understand that.

  "Mary," he shouted into the speakers, slowly walking toward the doors. "Mary, don’t go. You aren’t ready for this, Darling. You aren’t ready to be outside. Come home. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I just want what’s best for you. Darling, I won't say that again. That was my one apology. Now it is your turn. Come apologize to me, Darling, and all will be forgiven."

  He stepped out onto the porch, having made it through the double doors by holding on to the wall. His strength was coming back now. The cut had stopped bleeding, and he was no longer disoriented. Just angry.

  He looked to the left and right, searching for any sign of her. The house across the street's door stood wide open, but nothing else was there. Then he saw the blood. Little droplets of blood from the cut on her arm. They lead to the house across and then away to the house to his left. Following the track, he stepped off the porch and toward the road.

  "I'm going to find you. You have nowhere to go. There no point in trying to hide. No one out there is waiting for you anymore. I’m all you have. We have each other. Remember all our plans? Remember the life we’re going to have together?

  Liza

  I can't find a way out. There has to be a way out. Maybe if I run to the end of the street, I can find someone…

  Suddenly, it is daylight. Bright, blue sky, a sun bearing down, white puffy clouds floating by. The sudden shift was startling enough to send me to my knees, covering my head. The sounds of birds and cars driving by and children playing are everywhere.

  Just like the mocking voice of Alex, they come from fence posts and gutters and mailboxes. It’s not like the few moments I spent on the porch the first time I stepped out. The silence was palpable then. Now I’m surrounded by layered, intense sound.

  Then just as soon as it came, it’s gone. Night again. Stars above me. Soft crickets chirping. What the hell?

  Daylight explodes. Everything is bright. Panic starts to set in. My mind is slipping. He was right all along. Then something catches my eye. A bird. A bird that seems to only fly in the same circle, over and over.

  Nightfall again. Crickets.

  Daylight. The bird. Circling, circling.

  My heart squeezes so hard it sends a sharp pain through me as I realize what’s happening. I’m not looking at the sky. It's a screen. Everything is being projected on a screen. I can see that now. That means I'm not outside at all. This is a soundstage. Alex didn’t just try to create the perfect life inside the house. He created his own perfect world on a movie set.

  Nick

  The canoe was sinking. It was only a matter of minutes until it would be completely submerged. Nick's chin was just above the water, and he didn’t know how much time was left, but it wasn't long. No one was coming to help. No one was going to save him. He either could get his arm out, or he was going to die right there.

  He struggled with the rope, but it was stuck. His palm wouldn't bend enough. Inches away. Inches from being off and he could untie the rest of himself and get out. Inches.