They’re loud and disconcerting. I scan the shards of glass from the lightbulbs and antique crystal fixture we’re supposed to believe Chanel Gilbert broke when she lost her balance and fell. That’s what we’re meant to accept. Or is it really? Are we supposed to be tricked? Are we supposed to figure out that we’re being tricked? Possibly the answer is both. It’s all of the above and nothing, and I look up at the silver base of the chandelier with its two empty light sockets. I’m reminded of the bulb missing from my truck’s taillight. I’m reminded of Carrie. It’s as if I’ve been infected by her. As if she’s taken over my life. And my pulse kicks up another notch. I listen to the clocks.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

Glassy splinters glitter, and the spooky blue glow of the reagent I sprayed this morning has faded entirely. The area of white marble is blank again as if nothing is there. Marino turned on the air-conditioning before we left this morning, and I’m cold on the way to shivering in my soaking wet clothes. I begin to pace and almost don’t recognize myself in the Baroque mirror to the right of the front door. I look at the woman looking back at me in the corroded silvered glass in its chipped gilt frame of acanthus leaves.

I stare at my reflection as if it’s someone I don’t know, my short blond hair dripping wet and plastered to my head making my strong features seem more pronounced and dominant than I imagine them. My eyes are a deeper blue, a bruised blue that hints of my dark intense mood, and I can see the tension in muscles of my forehead and around my firmly set mouth. My navy blue field clothes with their embroidered CFC crest are dripping wet and clinging to me. I look like a waif, like an apparition, and I move away from the mirror.

My attention wanders past the staircase and into the living room, and I see what Marino meant when he was talking about Chanel Gilbert or someone having unusual interests. On both sides of a deep stone fireplace are antique spinning wheels, three-legged with wooden seats, and I spot another one next to the couch. I notice the hourglasses and thick candles on the mantel and tables, and I count the clocks. At least six of them. Wall clocks, tall case clocks, shelf clocks. From where I stand near the door I can see that their pale moon faces and ornate hands all show the same time of 1:20.

“Did you notice the clocks this morning?” I ask Marino as I listen for other sounds in the house.