These are good.”
“I don’t want an apple.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know, Mom, that’s why I’m looking.”
The tone of exaggerated patience would have infuriated Ian, but Kate didn’t react. Pick your battles, friends with older children had cautioned when she described the strange metamorphosis affecting her once-sweet daughter. Kate had taken to repeating that to herself like a mantra.
She carried the package out to the entrance hall and cautiously peered out the glass-paneled front door before opening it. The dirty white van had reappeared on the street, but when she stepped out on the porch she couldn’t see any movement in the neighbor’s house.
She looked down at the box and then back in the house, wondering if she could get Grace to carry it over for her. Only Grace would ask why and probably mention it to Ian and he would want to talk about it. “You’re becoming agoraphobic,” he’d said angrily when she refused to walk up to town the other night.
As if she didn’t know that, as if she didn’t realize it was a problem. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be this way. She’d tried once to explain how painful it was to be around other people since the attack, how it made her feel as if she were exposed.
To feel her skin tingling, as if everybody knew, to wonder if every man she saw was the stranger who’d broken into her studio—sometimes it was more than she could bear and she just wanted to hide. It was as if the assault hadn’t been a single incident, but a virus infecting her and all parts of her life.
The days when she’d felt safe on the streets of the city seemed so far in the past that it was as if they’d happened to another person. She’d been so naïve about danger, so blasé about her own personal safety. Rape was something that happened to women who lived in dangerous neighborhoods or went out at four in the morning or dressed provocatively. Rape didn’t happen to married women, to mothers, to women who always locked their car doors.
She glanced down at the box in her hands and read the address label again. Terrence Simnic. Well, maybe she’d just leave the box on the porch, ring the bell, and walk away.
That decision propelled her off her own porch, over the driveway, and up Mr. Simnic’s clipped lawn to his front steps. The house was similar in style to hers, but there was something timeless about this one, as if she’d stepped back into a Victorian novel. Maybe it was only that the old wicker furniture on the porch reminded her of her grandmother’s house.
The door had probably once been painted a deep green, but it had faded over time. She rang the bell and heard it echoing faintly through the house.
Nobody came. She shifted the box in her arms and hit the bell again. Something brushed against her leg and Kate screamed and dropped the box.
A yellow, short-haired cat stepped between her legs and leaped soundlessly on top of the box, looking up at her quizzically, its sinuous tail curling like a question mark.
“You scared me,” Kate said, crouching down and extending her hand. The cat leaned into her tentative touch, and she stroked his soft fur and wondered what to do about the box. She couldn’t just leave it here, not after she’d dropped it. She picked it up again and gave it a slight shake, praying whatever was in it wasn’t fragile.
A third try of the doorbell, though she’d given up hope of finding Mr. Simnic. Maybe he was hard of hearing. She knocked on the door anyway and it swung open. Startled, Kate looked into the house. It was gloomy thanks to the heavy curtains drawn over the front windows.
“Mr. Simnic?” She wasn’t even sure she was pronouncing his name correctly. There was no answer, but the cat had followed her in and meowed loudly near her feet.
“Hello? Mr. Simnic?” she called louder, and took a few more steps into the house.
“What do you want?”
The voice, deep and flat, came behind her. Kate whirled around and managed to turn a startled cry into, “Hello!” She gestured at the package. “Just dropping this off for you. I rang the bell but nobody answered.”
The man standing in the doorway looked down at the box and back up at her. He was anywhere from thirty-five to fifty years of age, just above average height, and with skin that looked pasty white as if he spent no time in the sun. His short, brown hair was wispy and receding, but as if his body were compensating for that, he had thickly haired arms hanging, somewhat chimp-like, down at his sides. He was wearing a short-sleeved baby blue shirt with sweat stains visible at the underarms. More body hair sprouted from the open neckline. His khaki pants had an oily-looking stain on one knee and they looked like they were dependent on his cracked leather belt to hold them up.
“Who are you?” he said in the same flat voice. His eyes were large and the muddy brown of river silt. It was too late to flee. Kate saw no other option and stuck out her hand.
“I’m Kate Corbin, your new neighbor.” She gestured at her house, but the man’s eyes remained focused on her face. “You’re Terrence Simnic, right?”
“Yes.” He sounded deeply suspicious.
“Well, I guess you weren’t here today when the mailman tried to drop this off, so he asked if I’d hold it for you.”
The man looked at the box again, and this time held out his arms to take it from her.
“I’m afraid I dropped it,” Kate said, adding hastily, “It was an accident—your cat startled me.”
A frown creased the flat face. “I hope you didn’t break it.”
“I hope not, too. Just let me know if it’s damaged, I’ll reimburse you.” She inched toward the door.
He shook his head. “You can’t.”
“No, really, Mr. Simnic, I’ll gladly pay for any repairs or replacement costs.”
“It can’t be replaced. It’s too valuable.”
Oh, great, a potentially litigious neighbor. Ian was going to love this.
“Whatever it is, Mr. Simnic, I’m sure we can—”
“It’s a doll.”
That startled her. Kate stared at him, trying to fit doll and this simian-looking man into the same universe. It didn’t work.
“It’s for my collection. Well, Mother’s collection.”
He reached a hand into his pocket and produced a pocket knife. For one horrible moment, as she watched his blunt fingers pinch forth the biggest blade, Kate thought he meant to use it on her. Instead, he set the box on the floor and squatted beside it, running the tip of the blade through the packing tape.
Pulling back the flaps, he scooped handfuls of Styrofoam peanuts onto the dusty floor, making little grunting noises. Multiple layers of bubble wrap appeared, and through them Kate could make out the hazy shape of something human-looking. Terrence Simnic unwrapped the layers, being careful not to jostle what was inside, reminding Kate of an archaeologist removing gauze from a mummy. Suddenly he stopped.
“She’s
