“Cold is one of the best ways to go—it can be euphoric, apparently,” he tells her. Frankie remains silent, beatific, her eyes quietly twitching away under the thin skin of her eyelids.
Her hair begins to buoy on the water’s surface as it rises around her, making her look like a mermaid.
“And drowning is supposed to be peaceful, quiet,” he mumbles as he takes a few shots of her body in the water. He lowers the camera and considers.
“Maybe we need underwear? It’ll look prettier,” he says, then disappears from the room. He searches her drawers and returns with a tangle of blush-pink lace and satin in his hands.
He shuts off the cold tap, the water now level with Frankie’s nose, her nostrils just above the water line.
Simon removes his jumper and T-shirt, then falls to his knees in front of the tub, dipping both arms into the water. He pulls the plug, then wrangles the delicate satin and lace of Frankie’s underwear onto her cold, wet body, his concentration intense.
Once on, he dries his arms on his folded T-shirt and redresses.
He showers her down once more, just in case he’s left a trace, then he refills the tub. He readjusts her body, one arm now jutting out of the water onto the bath rim, almost coquettish, beckoning. He takes a few more photos of her body, now draped in wet pink lace, her breasts just visible through the delicate pink filigree of her bra.
He can keep these, or post them online and delete the originals. Whatever he wants, but it’s good to have them, he thinks. There is a place for everything online.
—
The room is cold now, the wind ruffling the surface of the water nearest the window.
Simon takes in his work, places Frankie’s emptied pill bottle on the edge of the sink in plain sight, and gathers his things together.
He takes one last look at Frankie in the water, then turns away and exits the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him.
The small turn-lock on the door clicks into the locked position, manipulated from the outside of the door. To all intents it looks as if Frankie locked herself in the bathroom.
Simon slips his screwdriver back into his pocket, grabs the plastic bag, and heads down the stairs. He turns off the hall lights, drops Frankie’s wiped-down keys onto the hall table, and heads out the front door, disappearing into the night.
Day Eight
Chapter 49
Frankie Is Awake
Six hours later, Frankie’s eyesburst open in the water.
She is awake but she cannot move, her body numb and bluing. She cannot remember anything since the concrete steps.
Around her is pink, the pink of home; she is not in a strange house, she is not trapped in Anna’s basement room, she is in her own home, in the main bathroom.
A wave of relief courses through her. She is home. And yet—
She cannot move.
For a second, she wonders if she has sleepwalked herself here, into the tub. But then, with sinking dread, she recalls the reflection of the figure behind her on the concrete steps, the white-hot pain in her scalp. But the figure is a blur, a man certainly, but it was impossible to tell more.
Frankie can barely feel anything, not her legs, nor her arms, nothing. Her thoughts slip and slide away from her as she tries to grasp them; they mix and meld, like a fever dream. Did the figure look like Matt, or Greg, or Richard, Will, Ben? No, Ben was her ex-husband….
Her thoughts swirl away from her like the breeze from the open window on the water.
Her eyes move to look at her body, or at least what she can see of it from the angle her head is cocked at: her skin is almost translucent; she must be cold but she cannot feel it.
She notices she is wearing different underwear, something she bought herself years ago for Valentine’s Day. Nausea rises up insideher as she realizes she has no idea what has been done to her. Beyond the high window above she sees distinctly crisp morning light. There is a night unaccounted for—
And where is Anna? What happened to Anna?
She wonders if Anna is dead, if she herself is dead, here in the bath, and that is why she cannot move.
