the live art installation of Ingrid’s life, Sandro Cera was the lightbulb in the corner, flickering ominously, bound to blow.
Yet his was the advice she was now hearing.
Three times.
I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.
Ingrid looked around the Colorado rental. Even the temporary homes she sought refuge in were white-walled, sparsely furnished, neutral. When their SoHo loft was shot for an interiors magazine, the stylist pared it back even more, took pieces away. Pieces: furniture, paintings, sculptures, reality. How suddenly the landscape can change when its elements are plucked away.
Ingrid heard a noise at the front door. Light on her feet, she walked out into the long polished hallway. Her suitcases were at the end by the door: a set of five, olive green, edged in brown leather with accents of gold.
Now, there was banging at the door, hammering. Ingrid froze. The door burst open. She felt a rush of adrenaline.
This is not how it ends. This is not how it ends. This is not how it ends.
She backed into the kitchen, then turned, set to run for the French doors, but she could make out two dark figures standing there. Ingrid was briefly blindsided by her reflection in the glass.
She knew what she looked like to others. She knew what her husband looked like.
A Swedish proverb came to mind: Alla känner apan, men apan känner ingen.
Everyone knows the monkey, but the monkey knows no one.
Five weeks earlier …
Denver, Colorado
Special Agent Ren Bryce was sitting in an aisle seat of a three-star hotel conference room, primed to run. She was dressed in blue jeans, a white tank and gold strappy heels. Her dark hair was in a shiny ponytail, her makeup was for going out. Since she’d sat down, she had been twisting the silver-and-gold cuff on her narrow wrist, opening it and closing it. It was shaped like a lightning bolt.
I wonder does it work? Will it make me fly? Or zap people.
She looked around.
Men, women, no children, gathered in a beige room on a sticky Sunday night. Everyone so, so miserable.
There was a lectern in front with an A4 printout stuck to it that read: ‘Bipolar Support’.
Annnd so explains the misery.
Up ahead, a large lady moved awkwardly to the stage. She was wild-haired and makeup-free, except for the crazy shade of cherry on her lips. She looked as if she had dressed under pressure; grabbed a blouse and skirt from a peg in the hallway on her way out the door and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals she’d left in the garden.
‘Partying …’ she began.
Oh, dear God, do not laugh at this poor woman whose only parties may have been Twilight-themed.
The speaker continued: ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Before I start, I should say that tonight I am going to talk about mania.’
This will be good …
Ren checked her watch. She was here only because her boss had told her to come.
There’s a first time for everything, Gary Dettling, and a last time. In this particular instance, they are one and the same.
Gary Dettling had been her boss in the Undercover Program and also her case agent on the deep cover investigation that nearly destroyed her. She had done a dazzling job, though. Her investigation was the exemplary one, the one still used in UC training. Ren’s own boyfriend, Ben Rader, had studied her case. But the official story didn’t include the part where, within months of finishing the investigation, the exemplary agent was diagnosed bipolar. Ren had yet to talk him through that bonus feature.
She looked around the room at the ordinariness of everyone.
What could any of you know about what it’s like to be me?
The woman at the lectern continued: ‘Imagine telling someone who has been at a spectacular week-long party that the next night, they have to be in bed by ten p.m. As they are dancing on a table, laughing, swigging from a vodka bottle, surrounded by friends, new and old, you tell them that, really, they should stop. This feeling, this amazing feeling is not good.
‘As you reach out to prise the bottle from their hand, they will see you as reaching inside their soul to switch off a light. And they will claw at your hand to stop you, and as they do, they will look into your eyes with one of two things: an anger so intense that it could take your breath away, or a hurt so deep that it could break your heart. Who are you to take away their high? You are supposed to love them, you are supposed to value their happiness above all else.
‘And the following will happen: they will attack, and it will hurt. It will hurt.’ She looked up at the crowd. ‘Face the manic, face the consequences. Poop the party, prepare to be pooped on.’
I need to get out of here. This is wildly accurate.
Ren bent down to grab her purse from the floor. She caught sight of the little orange bottle of mood stabilizers inside.
Five months. Yay … great to have you on the show …
‘And as your loved one attacks,’ the speaker was saying, ‘and as the pain rips through you, they will further your pain by turning to someone else instead. Who can they find to party with when you won’t? Who can they spend all their money with? Maybe all your money. Who can they have all that sex with? Not you. You are pathetic. You are a nag. You want them to be miserable. You just want to control them. That’s all you want. You don’t really love them. You are now the enemy.’
There are people crying in here. I can hear people crying.
‘Hey, nice tits,’ said the guy three seats away from Ren.
What the? Ren turned to him. And Happy Manic Descent to you!
The guy shifted one seat closer.
Ren held up a finger to him. ‘OK, you have to be shitting me.’
‘I’m not!’ he said, beaming. ‘You are really beautiful.’
May the scales of mania fall from your eyes.
‘This is not happening,’ said Ren, her voice low. ‘Go back to your seat. And …’ She pointed at the lectern.
This is for you, buddy.
He did as she asked.
‘Dayum, though …’ she heard him say.
