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Eighteen feet away. Fifteen.
“That’s right. You wait there. Useless.” The Corner’s purr again gave her the sense he saw her as a jumpy, unpredictable animal. He moved cautiously, slowly, but with the upright confidence that he was the superior creature. That he was at the edge of desire fulfilled.
Thirteen feet. Twelve.
“How many people? Remembered you?” she asked, hoping to distract him, hoping that the sound of his voice would help her aim.
He was close enough now that when the moonlight caught his features, she saw the unblinking intensity of his eyes, the twitch of excitement that lifted the corner of his lip.
“Some,” he said with a tip of his head.
“How many…didn’t?” she stammered, her words filed down to essentials, barely audible.
“More.” The word was drawn out sensuously, viciously. “But it doesn’t matter. They’re all mine now.” He paused, straightened himself with pride, and added in an instructive tone, “That’s how it works.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw him the way he saw himself. His shadow dragged the pain he’d inflicted, the power he’d wielded, behind him like a cape. She watched him wrapping himself in it, fabric threaded with ghosts he’d made, trapped, nostalgically stroking the tin box he’d stolen from her daughter, things he’d stolen from others, with flat fingers.
And then the image was gone. There was only the snow. The woods. Only her and the Corner.
“No,” she said, the word light but matter-of-fact. “It doesn’t work that way. They aren’t yours.”
He stopped moving toward her, momentarily surprised. “And you think you know how things work?”
She saw her mother’s face, the way her markings whitened a patch of eyelash, of eyebrow, felt the heat of her smile, the squeeze of her mother’s hand as they walked—bum-bum, bum-bum, a heartbeat; a secret way to say “I love you,” the same as she now did with her own children. She watched her whitened hand sketch clean lines and angular letters. She felt the panel of the hidden place click shut. Saw the spinning beauty of the bees’ perfection. Gravity pulled the gun down heavy in her hand, the parts of it disassembled, reassembled in imagination as she visualized its mechanics, the steps to set it into motion.
“I know how things work,” she said, hearing the space she’d unconsciously left between the words, as if each were its own crucial sentence.
“Then you know you’re…incidental.”
She breathed deep and thought of the downy fuzz behind her daughter’s ear. The miniature jelly bean birthmark on her son’s thigh.
I love you. I love you.
She opened her eyes.
“No one is incidental,” she said. “There’s time. Care.”
He stayed still, regarding her, and she wondered if he understood what she meant, had any sense of cost and value, the effort life took to create, to cultivate.
“You know who I’ll visit next,” he sneered. She felt, vibrating through the air, his need to see her react to the threat of precious things ended, his eagerness that she acknowledge her helplessness so that he could bathe in it.
When she didn’t respond, he began moving again. His steps were steady and his stare unwavering, as though he was savoring the anticipation of the inevitable moment his hand would at last curl around her throat.
Nine feet. Eight feet.
Her mind narrowed to a pinpoint.
You’re the one who watches. You’re the one who watches over the children. You’re the one who knows how things work.
He thought he saw you. He never did. But you see him.
Her whole body clicked into acceptance.
You’re the Corner.
She lifted the gun and inexpertly pulled back the slide. It moved smoothly into place with a preciseclick. A hitch of silence followed the unexpectedly loud noise, both of them stunned to stillness. She broke the moment, shakily using both hands to point the gun at his immense, darkened form to steady the weapon as best she could.
He lunged, blotting out the whole world.
