White Space

The jacket is smoky. In the center, there is a long dark slit edged in a fiery corona of red and yellow and orange. The slit could be a cat’s eye, or a lizard’s, or a split in the earth—or the mouth she sees whenever she gets a migraine, because there are shadowy figures and a writhing tangle of weird monsters struggling to climb out. Look at it a certain way, and you could almost believe they were about to leap off the cover and out of the book.

And the cover reads:

Franklin J. McDermott

THE DICKENS MIRROR

Book II of THE DARK PASSAGES

EMMA What the Cat Already Sees

IN THIS JUNE of memory, Emma’s blood turns to slush.

Another book by McDermott, in a series she’s never heard of. One that she’s pretty sure doesn’t really exist. Was this in the bibliography Kramer gave us? She doesn’t think so. But McDermott knew the Dickens Mirror; he wrote about it.

Wait a second. Just because he knew doesn’t mean it’s a real thing. Writers make stuff up all the time. The Mirror could be imaginary and something that only exists in a book.

But if that was true, and even if it wasn’t, then what—who—was the first book about?

Oh, holy shit. An icy flood sweeps through her chest. I am so stupid. The jigsaw bits and pieces of her Lizzie-blinks suddenly begin snapping into place. There are still a lot of gaps; these are blinks after all, and her memory of them, the fine print and little details, isn’t perfect, but she recalls enough: that barn, an explosion, a car crash, a dad who’s a writer, and Lizzie’s mom makes glass. Emma, you nut, Kramer said that—or he will say … Oh, what the hell difference does it make? She is shaking so badly, it’s as if she’s back in the snow, in that awful valley. What she remembered was what Kramer said about Meredith McDermott: a physicist turned glass artist, who blew her husband to smithereens.

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, all this—the crash, the valley, House—all this is about Frank McDermott? First I write a story that’s straight out of notes for a book he never finished, and now I’m channeling his kid? This is like the moment to come, one she hasn’t lived yet, when Kramer accuses her of plagiarism, and all she can and will think is, Don’t be crazy. The guy’s dead.

But no, it’s even worse than that; she’s dropping into the last reel because she knows what comes next. Lizzie’s already in the car; that kid’s about five seconds away from dying.

“Emma?” Lily touches her arm, but the feel is muted, as if reaching her through a layer of cotton. “Are you all right?”

“I’m … I’m fine.” She flips the book over to study the jacket photo. The image is black and white, and the caption reads in tiny white block letters: THE WRITER AND HIS FAMILY AT THEIR HOME IN RURAL WISCONSIN.

They’re all there, ranged on the porch steps: McDermott, his head cocked as if something’s caught his eye, stands on the right. His wife—so you’re Mom; you’re Meredith, Emma thinks—is on the left.

Her eyes zero in on a little girl with blonde pigtails and an armful of cat, between Frank and Meredith. Bet that’s an orange tabby, too. The cat’s gaze is focused on something that must be in a tree off-camera.

Lizzie and Marmalade and … oh my God. Despite the day’s warmth, her skin prickles with gooseflesh as she picks out the porch railing, a bay window on the left, a door with a wrought-iron knocker and pebbled sidelights, the glider on chains, hanging flower baskets spilling over with geraniums that she’d lay money on are red. That’s House.

That is also when she realizes: McDermott is not looking around. The photographer captured McDermott as he was looking up. From the angle, she understands that McDermott is about to spot—or knows exactly—what the cat already sees. Her eyes inch up the picture, and then her breath hitches in a small gasp.

“Emma?” Eric says. “Are you okay? What is it?”

“I … It’s …” But her mouth won’t work, and she can’t get the words off her tongue.

In that photograph, draped over the sill of a second-story window, is a hand.

But the fingers are not fingers. They are claws.

And then … they move.

RIMA That’s No Cloud