was that enough of that tissue could bind like steel. It wasn’t just tissue. She could taste the fluff of quilting batting in her mouth.
Frantically, Trixie pulled at her limbs. She was stuck fast to the chair.
Endless scenarios began to run through her head. None of them had a happy ending. She was going to die. She just knew it. Her whole life was flashing before her eyes: she and Abby growing up in their matching clothes, unwrapping gifts at the Christmas tree, baking cookies with their mother, at the cottage...and then the knock on the door.
So sorry, an accident.
And Abby marrying and moving to Australia.
And Trixie being so alone.
And so when Miles, her one and only boyfriend, had said, Move in with me, I’ll look after you, there had been no choice involved, really.
And when he left, he hadn’t given her a choice, either.
For a moment, she pictured him bursting through the door, rescuing her, admitting the error of his ways, giving her back her dreams.
Trixie blinked hard. That’s how she had gone through her whole life. Acting like someone else was in charge of her dreams. Acting as though she had no choice.
Now was she going to die the same way? As if she was powerless? As if she had no choice. No! She was going to fight and fight hard.
It wasn’t just about her. Her nieces were in peril, too. They could all perish here if Trixie didn’t act and act quickly.
She began to rock the chair.
Bang.
It sounded like an explosion, not a subdued pop, more like a mortar round had gone off right in Daniel’s trench. Whatever had hit the floor above his head had hit it so loudly the crystals in the chandelier clanged against each other dangerously. Daniel jumped up off the sofa, his heart beating fast.
He waited for the sound of running feet to start again.
Nothing.
The hair on the back of his neck rose. And he knew, to the pit of his stomach, something was wrong upstairs, in the apartment above him.
He paused only at his own door to shove shoes on his bare feet and then Daniel raced out of his apartment, down the hallway and up the steps.
Outside 602, he asked himself what he was doing. If he was so sure something was wrong, why not call 911?
And say what? I was busy composing a list of inane sayings and then, guess what? I heard a bump in the night!
He stood outside the door for a moment, listening. He found the silence eerie, and the hair on the back of his neck would not sit down. He knocked on the door. There it was—the pitter-patter of running little feet. But nothing else. No other sounds, including the one he was listening for, the husky, lovely notes of an adult voice, someone in charge.
He knocked again, louder, more insistent.
After a long pause, and more of the pitter-patter, the door handle squeaked. The door slid open two inches, catching on the chain lock.
Nobody appeared to be there.
And then he looked down.
Two identical solemn faces, smeared with tears and what appeared to be red berry juice, were pressed against the crack in the doorway, and the tiny girls regarded him warily.
“Is your, uh, mommy here?”
“Mama goned.”
The Australian accent was noticeable. It looked like they were going to close the door.
“Aunt!” he remembered. “Is your aunt Patricia here?”
“Auntie’s name Trixie.”
He was starting to feel exasperated, but a sound from in the apartment, muted, but very much like a whimper, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up higher.
“Get your aunt for me,” he said, trying for a note of both sternness, to instill obedience, and friendliness to try and overcome whatever they had heard about the danger of strangers.
Two sets of identical liquid dark eyes exchanged a look.
“She’s dead,” one offered.
“Unlock the door. Right now.” He fumbled for his cell phone, always in his shirt pocket, and realized he wasn’t even in a shirt. He was standing in the hallway in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, and his best shoes and nothing else.
Not exactly the person children would or should unlock the door for.
“Please?” He tried for a sweet note. It came as unnaturally to him as if he was speaking through the sickening fluff of candy floss. He tried to smile in a friendly fashion.
The children were fooled—it made him uncomfortably aware of how totally vulnerable children were—and one of them ventured a tiny smile in return while the other stood on tiptoes and tried to reach the chain that barred the door.
“Can’t reach.” And that was that. The little minx looked as if, now that she had made somewhat of an effort, she was going to shut the door.
“Get out of the way,” he ordered. “Stand way back from the door.”
The pitter-patter of running feet told him he had, somewhat surprisingly, been obeyed. Either that, or they had totally lost interest in him and run off to play. He threw his shoulder into the door, and the flimsy chain snapped with barely a protest, and the door crashed open and hit the coat closet door behind it with an explosive bang. Daniel was propelled into the darkness of the apartment.
A huge cat, long haired and gray, shot out of the closet, yowling with indignation. White fluff, an inch deep on the floors, floated in the air behind the cat as it skittered around a corner and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
Daniel could only hope one of the neighbors had heard the ruckus and would have the good sense to call for help.
“Patricia?” he called. “Patricia Marsh? It’s Daniel Riverton, your neighbor from downstairs.”
He heard that little whimper again. The layout of the apartment was identical to Kevin’s, so he got his bearings, moved swiftly past the kitchen and down the short hallway. He burst into the living room. His every step seemed to stir clouds of something off the floor.
The children, obviously identical twins, sat in complete darkness on a brightly patterned sofa by the window, peering at something they held between them.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. One of them glanced up at him with a look that appeared defiant, not the least frightened.
He wasn’t sure about kids’ ages, since children were the segment of the population that, thankfully, he had the least to do with. He thought maybe these little girls were four or five.
They were dressed in identical white nighties, but that was where any perception of innocence ended. Their hair was black, wildly curly, long and tangled. They looked like children who had been raised by wolves.
As if to underscore that perception, one lifted up her bright red hand, berry-stained like her face, and licked it.
“Where’s your aunt?”
Despite the fact the layout of the apartment was identical to Kevin’s, Daniel found himself feeling disoriented by the mess. It seemed as if it had snowed inside. That white fluff was everywhere. It covered the floor, and floated in little clumps. A closer glance showed him dozens of envelopes were scattered, like so much debris, among the disarray.
Just off the living room, in the dining room alcove, in the middle of that sea of mail and white fluff, was an overturned dining chair.
With a mummy attached to it. Again, the scene was so surreal, he felt disoriented, his mind grappling with what was going on.
Then mummy whimpered.