I press my back to the wall and hold it in front of my face.
Something crashes to the ground, and in the split second I take to wonder what it was—please don’t let it be the 4K ColorEdge—I almost miss the sound: breathing, throaty and labored. Then, the scuff of shoes against carpet. The intruder is moving with awkward, shambling steps, like some sort of reanimated creature, and even though I can’t tell how big they are, I know one thing with absolute certainty: They’re bigger than me.
And they’re getting closer.
I hold my breath and put my finger on the nozzle of my backup bottle of screen cleaner.
But the next thing I hear isn’t a growl or a roar or a mouth mashing at my face. It’s a bright, metallic clamor because—oh, thank God—they’re leaving. Running down the stairs. Clumsily. The rhythm is weird, uneven. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they had three feet.
It’s certainly nothing like Beethoven.
They’re long gone by the time the last echo dies away.
GRACE PORTILLO: Had you ever been in a situation like that before?
MARISSA DAHL: Um, no, that was the first time I ever found myself trapped in a small room with a potentially violent stranger.
GRACE PORTILLO: What was it like?
MARISSA DAHL: I’ve had better evenings.
SUZY KOH: But you’ve probably seen, like, eight million movies where that happens, right?
MARISSA DAHL: Yes, that number definitely sounds accurate.
SUZY KOH: You know what I’m getting at.
MARISSA DAHL: If you’re asking whether my annual repeat viewings of Die Hard, Toy Soldiers, and Under Siege somehow prepared me mentally or physically for the experience of having to find a way out of an enclosed space because someone wanted to hurt me, let me assure you, the answer is no.
TWENTY
And then silence—of a sort.
Because even if I were able to regulate my breathing, the blood rushing through my head would still be louder than any ocean. But I can’t regulate my breathing, so there’s that, too, and it isn’t exactly a smooth flow of air, like the wind through the trees. No, my breath’s rough and far away, like I’m a scuba diver or a prank caller or Tom Hardy in The Dark Knight Rises.
Or Tom Hardy in Fury Road.
Or Tom Hardy in Dunkirk.
There’s a rustling, too—my hair, rubbing back and forth against the acoustic tile—and, to my right, an unpleasant rasp. I look down. I’m scratching my fingernails against the carpet, over and over again.
After a moment or a minute or maybe an hour, I manage to get to my feet. Sure, I have to throw out a hand immediately to catch myself, but I’m fine. I’m fine! I’m going to be fine.
Pretty fine.
In parts.
My arm is definitely bleeding from the fall. I’m guessing it’ll hurt pretty bad once the adrenaline wears off.
I reach down and dig my cardigan out of my backpack. It’s one of my very favorite cardigans—long, black, soft, with sleeves that don’t rub at my wrists—but it has a higher purpose now. I wrap it around my bleeding arm as best I can, tying it up with a granny knot and using my teeth to tighten it. I grab my backpack with my other arm and feel my way out of the room and over to the stairs.
I don’t trust my legs or my luck, so I go down on my butt, my teeth clacking with each impact. When I reach the ground floor, I inch forward, stretching my fingertips out ahead of me until I make contact with the cool, concrete wall. I follow this along to the right, my hand skimming its surface. Soon I see the narrow sliver of light beneath the lobby door. I wrap a shaking hand around the doorknob, drop my shoulder, and shove.
It opens maybe half an inch.
I stare at the door in disbelief. My attacker used the padlock to trap me in here while they made their escape. So now I’m stuck here. Late at night. In a remote wing of the hotel. Bleeding. Without a phone.
I rub at the space between my collarbones. When an anxiety attack comes on, it starts in my throat, and I can feel it now. At the moment it’s just a tickle, a tendril of dread, the mildest suggestion: Oh, hey, by the way, no big deal, but I thought you might maybe like to know the world is ending.
I won’t be able to control it much longer. Not if I’m just sitting here.
I need to find another way out.
I scramble back up the stairs and into the projection room. I pick my way carefully over to the editing bay, stepping over boxes, cables, my feet crunching on hard plastic, shards of glass. My fingers find the edge of the desk and fumble for the task lamp. It’s been knocked over, but I’m hoping the bulb’s intact.
Please turn on please turn on please turn on.
It doesn’t turn on.
Okay. That’s okay. Surely that’s not my only option. I let my hands feel their way across the desk. It seems like there are still two monitors up here. I can just turn on the computer. That should give me enough light to see by.
I reach under the desk for the PC tower—
And find nothing but cables, dangling into space.
I’d collapse into the fancy desk chair if I had any idea where it was.
It clicks, then. That was the dragging, thumping sound I heard. Whoever was here—whoever attacked me—they took the computer. They’ve stolen the movie.
The movie—
I jump up. That’s it.
I stumble across the room and over to the projector. It may not be the model I’m used to, but I’m sure I can figure it out. I find the control panel and run my fingers over it. The start button is always bigger than the rest of them, so it should be right about—there. I press it. Nothing. I press it again, harder.
Again, nothing.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and run through my routine from the Carmike Beverly 18.
The third time through, it comes to me.
Of course: the main power switches.
I move my hand to the right. There they are. I hold my breath—and flip them up.
Inside the housing, the xenon lamp comes on, almost painfully bright. Power. I have power.
I press the start button again, and this time the projector whirs to life. A second later, the three giant platters of the Autowind go into motion. My eyes automatically check the threading, tracking the film from the reel to the projector, reflexively reciting the name of each mechanism, from the whimsical to the technical to the sublime. The brain, the dancer, the tree. The sound reader, the projection plate, the framing window.
And then—
I reach for the dowser switch and open the lens.
The picture.
Onscreen, Rebecca flickers to life.
For a moment, I forget what I’m doing.
My God, was Laurence Olivier pretty. Even with that mustache.
I gather what wits I have left and scan the floor of the projection room. I spot my phone lying against the wall, under the snack table. I crouch down and grab it, flipping it open, and—
There’s no service. Of course there’s no service. Why would there be service? Have I learned nothing from shitty low-budget thrillers?
I roll the digital projector out of the way and, with a grunt, manage to wedge open the right-hand projector port. I thrust my arm through, out into the theater, and squint at the phone’s display. Still no service.
I start to pace the length of the projection room, but then I notice how badly my legs are wobbling, so I lower myself onto the couch instead. I cradle my arm against my chest; it’s starting to hurt in a way I won’t be able to ignore for much longer. I press my palm against the knotted cardigan. It’s not soaked through—I’m not going to bleed out—but I don’t think it would be wise to wait here the ten or so hours it will take for someone to find me.
If I’m lucky.
And what if the intruder’s still out there? What if
they run into someone else and hurt them worse than they hurt me—and what if I could have stopped them?
Or what if they change their mind? What if they come back, knowing I’m still here? Trapped. Hurt.
Helpless.
No, I have to get out of here.
There’s only one viable exit I can think of: the projector port. I walk over to examine it, running my good hand around the frame. The opening isn’t as big as I’d like, but I think if I scrunch my shoulders and suck in my stomach, I might be able to fit. I lean my head out and look down. It’s an eight-foot drop to the ground. Doable, if I’m careful how I land.
I use the awful afghan from the couch to lower my backpack to the theater floor, then I boost myself up onto the lip of the port. I tuck my knees to my chest and twist around until I can stick my legs out on the other side. I scoot forward until I’m just barely clinging to the edge.
I draw a shuddering breath.
On screen, Judith Anderson is clutching Joan Fontaine’s arm.
I think I know this scene—
“Go ahead. Jump. He never loved you, so why go on living?”
I close my eyes. Am I really doing this? I’m really doing this.
“Jump and it will all be over.”
I let myself slide forward.
* * *
—
I land hard on my left ankle, but I don’t have time to cry about it. I snatch up my backpack and limp over to the nearest set of lobby doors.
Wait—
I can’t go out this way, I’m just going to get lost again. And the intruder would expect me to use that door. They might be watching.
I need another option. I squeeze my hand into a fist and pound it against my thigh.
Marissa—think!
A fire escape—there has to be one. Surely they have some building codes in this state. And if I can just get outside, I can circle around back to the lobby. I can’t get lost if I can see the sky.
I hobble down to the front of the theater, shining my phone’s light along the curtains. One has an extra seam down the middle, and I lift a shaking hand to push it back.
Behind it is a door.
I’m so relieved I don’t think to check what’s on the other side before I throw my body through, and just like that I’m standing on the edge of the ocean in the faint light of a crescent moon, the waves crashing against the rocks, misting me with their spray.
The door creaks behind me. I whirl around and lunge forward to catch it before it slams shut, but I’m not quick enough. I fumble with the keys Anjali gave me—my hands, I notice with near scientific detachment, are shaking—but none of them fit the lock. There’s no going back.
I turn and take stock of my surroundings. I’m standing at the top of a rusted iron staircase—not a spiral one this time, but a real, proper fire escape like you’d see in Serpico or West Side Story. It leads down to a metal walkway, which—I try to picture the hotel’s layout—I think should take me around to the beach. But I’m not entirely sure. The architecture of this place defies inductive reasoning.
Not that it matters what I think. Unless I want to go for a swim, this walkway’s the only way forward.
I descend the stairs cautiously, gripping the phone in my bad hand, using the light from the display as best I can. I keep my good hand on the waist-high railing on my right—the walkway is slippery with God only knows what, sea slime and fish poop and several decades of shoddy upkeep. The railing on the left is useless. It rattles if I move too close, one solid push away from tumbling into the ocean.
I let myself risk a glance at the water, about twenty feet below. A fall from this height, onto those rocks—
I force myself to keep my eyes on my feet.
Eventually, I come to a narrow, weathered boardwalk that just barely breaks the surface of the water. Each time a wave rushes in, the planks disappear beneath the dark, swirling tide. Then, slowly, they reemerge—only to be swallowed again.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine.
Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I stuff my shoes and socks in my backpack and roll up the cuffs of my jeans. I dip one foot into the water, flinching at the feel of it—at all of it. The water, the wood, the salt, the seaweed, the absurdity.
There’s no railing at all here (it’s fine!), so when the next wave comes in, I widen my stance, bracing myself with my hands on my knees. Then I wait until the foam clears and I can see the path again. It’s slow going.
Step, step, hold. Step, step, hold.
That’s when I see what’s ahead, what I missed because I was too busy thinking about my feet and the water and my arm, and I stop dead in my tracks—and isn’t that an appropriate turn of phrase. Because if I’m not mistaken, I’ve just found the back entrance to the cave Gavin brought me to earlier today. And this time I’m alone.
All alone.
I take a halting step forward and peer inside. Darkness upon darkness.
I double over and barf up a half cup of watery bile.
Cognitive behavioral therapy can really only get you so far, I guess.
I sweep my phone out in front of me, trying to use the light to get a better look around. Some people might not want to look into the corners of a cave, afraid of what they’ll find, preferring instead to pretend nothing’s there. Me, I want to know what to avoid. The next time death comes for me, I’d like to see it coming.
Right now, though, I can only see a foot in front of me, if that.
(It’s fine.)
I square my shoulders, steady my breathing, and reach out. The cave wall is smooth to the touch. I walk my fingers up until I find the rough edge that marks the waterline.
It’s an inch above my head.
And if something happens to me in here, no one’s coming to find me.
I swallow back another kick of bile and start forward, sliding my foot out in front of me as I go to make sure I don’t topple off the edge of the boardwalk. About ten yards in, the wall falls away. I inch forward, fingers spread wide, palm out, feeling for signs of a breeze. Maybe this is the way out.
Wait—
I go very still and listen very hard—as hard as I listened on my first day of film school, as hard as I listened when Amy told me about Josh, as hard as I listened when my mom told me how to make friends—but all I hear are the waves outside, lashing the rocks.
But for a second, I could have sworn—
On the next step, my toe catches an uneven board, and I topple forward, landing on my hands and knees. My head hangs low as I absorb the pain. My arm is screaming; my ankle’s throbbing. My jeans, soaked with saltwater, stick to my freshly scraped knees. But I have to get up. I have to keep going. Because the water’s getting deeper and the ocean’s getting louder, and am I really so certain someone’s not behind me?
A breeze riffles through my hair.
At least I think it’s a breeze.
Oh, forget this.
I scramble to my feet and run.
* * *
—
I burst out into the night air, but I don’t stop to savor it. I keep moving, running, legs and elbows and heart pumping. I drag myself over a dune, away from the water, toward the hotel. The stars are just barely visible through a haze of light cloud cover, but after the darkness of the cave, they seem almost shockingly bright. My vision is astonishing. It’s like I’m an owl or a mutant or a serial killer in night-vision goggles, trailing Jodie Foster in a basement.
I think it’s possible I need a doctor.
I hurry past the lifeguard station, skirting a pile of rolled-up umbrellas and a lounge chair someone forgot to put away. The sight of the chair sparks a memory so sharp and clear I can almost see it in front of me: the strap of an orange swimsuit, a wisp of blond hair, the pale length of an outstretched arm.
I
stumble; my knees hit the sand.
It wasn’t a memory.
I lift my head. In the chair in front of me is a slender ankle attached to a slim calf.
I know that leg.
“Liza?” I whisper.
She doesn’t move. Maybe she’s sleeping—or sleeping something off.
“Liza,” I try again.
Still nothing. I pull myself up and brush the sand off my jeans. I reach for her shoulder—
And that’s when I see her face.
I know immediately that this time she’s dead for real.
She’s just not that good an actress.
SUZY KOH: What was it like, finding a dead body?
MARISSA DAHL: Not an experience I would care to repeat.
GRACE PORTILLO: Was it scary?
MARISSA DAHL: It was a dead body. A dead human body. Someone who had, hours earlier, been walking and talking and laughing and, I don’t know, probably complaining about something totally mundane. Someone with a mother and a father and sisters and dozens of friends. A person, Grace. She was a real person. And she died. And I was right there. Scary isn’t the right word for what it was. Scary’s something you seek out. Scary’s fun. Nothing about this was fun.
TWENTY-ONE
I’ve spent a lifetime imagining worst-case scenarios. Every time I stand on a subway platform, I think about how easy it would be for someone to push me in front of a train. When I see a child’s ball rolling toward a curb, I can’t help but picture a tiny body being zipped into a black bag. Once, Amy and I were sitting out on our old patio, and she tipped her face up to the sun and smiled and said, I don’t know, something about how great it is to get to live in Southern California, probably, and I followed her gaze and thought: Just five billion years until that sucker burns this planet to a crisp.
Overanxious mothers, people who browse WebMD, guys with signs that read THE END IS NIGH, those who consider Final Destination service journalism. These are my people.
Still—
Pretty as a Picture Page 19
