Two days before his meetingwith Greywall, Rawlins sat in his study in the waning light of late afternoon, rereading the ritual he had been agonizing over for weeks.
He felt stuck. The ritual had grown shockingly complex, a delicate balance of variables. There was the primary effect, which would render the subject compliant and susceptible, but it now needed to be modified with both a delay mechanism and, even more difficult, a time dilation. The mathematics required multivariable calculus to determine the interplay of effects, and it wasn’t apparent to him in whatorderthe different components of the ritual should be conducted. The natural solution would be totestthe ritual, to put it into practice, study the effects, and revise if necessary. But something this dangerous, this wildly illegal, could not be field-tested. He had to get it perfect on the basis of theory alone.
On his own, he knew he could only do so much. Every scholar had blind spots; Rawlins needed someone to bounce his ideas off, someonewho could offer a fresh perspective, and there was only one person he could possibly go to. But he needed to maintain the façade that this was entirely an academic exercise, so he could not reasonably summon her over for that purpose alone. It needed to feel more casual, an afterthought.
Fortunately, his mind had no difficulty cooking up a reason to invite her over. He sent her a message instructing her to stop by a sex shop after class and purchase a new vibrator.
An hour later, Ellsbeth was naked and tied to a chair in his study. He took his time teasing her with the toy. They had been together enough that he knew her cues well—the way she gasped when he surprised her, bit her lip impatiently when he backed off, and shivered when she got close. He felt like a conductor and her body was his orchestra; the music of her pleasure swelled at his command when he slid the pulsating toy up her thigh and pressed it against her clit, only to then move it off, creating one mini-crescendo and decrescendo after another. She writhed and whimpered and groaned, loving and infuriated by his teasing in equal measure—until at last he pulled her forward to the edge of the chair and entered her so that he could feel her climax and join her in the release they both needed.
Afterward, he untied the ropes, letting his fingers linger on the red lines they had left on her wrists and thighs as she squirmed against them. “I like it,” she said as he kissed the marks.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” he asked offhandedly. “I’m making risotto with mushrooms and peas, and there will be plenty to share.”
“Oh, thanks, but I should get home,” Ellsbeth said, reaching for her underwear. “I’ve got the reading you assigned. And a paper due for Sapersky’s seminar.”
Rawlins glanced at his phone. It was only four o’clock. “Well, you could get to work here while I start cooking,” he said, gesturing toward the desk. “We’ll eat, talk about what we’re working on…”
“I appreciate that, but I think here I might be a bit distracted,” she told him, standing up and brushing past him.
“I’m sure we could offset the distraction,” he said, intercepting her with a hand on her waist. “If you had a brilliant professor helping you with your work, I bet it would go much faster.”
“You don’t make it easy, but I really should go.” She smiled, but he sensed a tightness around her eyes. What had felt like flirtation a second ago suddenly seemed to him like wheedling. Ellsbeth had been letting him down nicely.
Part of him wanted to adopt a tone of authoritative command, to tell her to stay in the confidently direct way he knew that she enjoyed. But to do so now felt ugly and even desperate, and he worried it would ruin the playful dynamic.
Another part of him wanted to tell her the truth: That he needed her help. That he was actually planning to use obscuration, and he needed it to work. But that was too risky. It raised too many questions he didn’t want to answer. And he worried that needing her would somehow crack the illusion of the roles they had agreed to takeon.
So instead he retreated, stepping away from her and trying to keep his voice light. “Yes, you should get back home, before I come up with another punishment.” He left the room while Ellsbeth put her clothes back on, busying himself in the kitchen; when she emerged, they said a goodbye that was friendly but perfunctory.
Ellsbeth did not exactlyslamthe door behind her, but pulled it shut with a thunderous finality. The sound echoed through the house, making Rawlins more acutely aware of the size—and emptiness—of his home. He glanced toward the front room as though he might catch her departing and see the expression on her face—anger? Irritation? Sadness?—but she was gone and there was nothing to see but the sculpture in the foyer, wobbling on its pedestal.
In Ellsbeth’s absence, the house felt oddly like a museum without visitors; he could see the rows of books in his study, the ceremonial masks hung in the dining room. All those items he had filled the house with, to imbue it with the joy of his travels and his learning, now seemed cold and dead.
He grabbed his phone to put on music and fill the silence while he cooked, and could not help but wonder what Ellsbeth listened to. Did she like jazz? He imagined trying to explain to her the spontaneous complexities of Charlie Parker, the history of bebop that informed mid-century jazz experimentation. He wanted to let her choose what would come next, to feign horror at whatever song she might select.He craved the sort of teasing, bantering debate he knew they could have. About music. About anything.
Those conversations were for couples. For the interpersonal dance of discovering each other’s minds and tastes and habits. And that was not what they had agreedto.
He tried to appreciate the fact that he could listen to whatever he damn well pleased. But as he scrolled through playlists, nothing struck his fancy. No longer in the mood to cook, he ordered takeout that he would eat alone while reviewing the ritual.
Tonight was the night. He had not gotten to ask for Ellsbeth’s input after all, but he would have to make do without it. The most difficult, high-stakes ritual of his life, and he was on his own.
Ellsbeth
On the walk over to the police station, Ellsbeth had worried about how she was going to find an excuse to touch the compounding clay to Officer Marcos’s skin. But as soon as she entered the dingy back office—water-stained on the ceiling and stuffed wall-to-wall with filing cabinets—he extended his hand in greeting. A polite habit, even when faced with someone like Ellsbeth who had been nothing but a hassle for him. She was an item on his to-deal-with list that kept reappearing, the specter that wouldn’t go away.
Officer Marcos seemingly hadn’t noticed the small pat of red compounding clay that she had stuck on the inside of her palm. If Ellsbeth had prepared the ritual correctly, the time dilation would obviously mean a slight delay in how long it would take for the obscuration to take effect.
And so she waited.
“Miss Storer,” he said, pushing the sleeves up on his rumpled button-down shirt. There was uneven stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t offer her coffee or a seat. He was meeting with her only because she had promised the receptionist that this would be the last time she came to the precinct and asked about her sister’s death. If everything went according to plan, it wouldbe.
Officer Marcos sighed and sucked at his teeth when Ellsbeth didn’t begin speaking. “How can I help you?” he asked finally, with no question in his voice. Ellsbeth’s vision narrowed, blinking white at theedges. This had to work. Ithadto work. Otherwise, what was all of it for?
“Um,” she said. How long could she stall for? How long could she keep Officer Marcos in this room? “I still have some questions about my sister’s death. Roberta Storer.”
“I am aware,” Marcos said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that you think there are unanswered questions.” He sniffed, as if he were getting a cold. “I have shared all of the information on the case available to the public. If you continue to harass officers—”
Ellsbeth would never find out the consequences he was promising in his threat. At that moment, his eyes clouded gray and filmy, and the muscles in his face relaxed.
