Slowly, her movements measured, she turned back to the wall opposite and to her shadow.

The head was straight again.

She blinked once, twice, forcing back the stinging moisture that stress had brought to her eyes, then shoved around the hallway’s corner, racing the stairs to the landing.

It had to be an optical illusion. She leaned her shoulder against the wall, relying on the hard structure to help her feel centered. Didn’t it? I couldn’t figure it out right then, but if I’d spent more time, tried moving my head in different ways, I’d see how it worked. Right?

It was the hour. It made the house wrong. Made Margot feel sick and hunted and lost. She breathed slowly, holding her breath a few seconds before each exhale, to slow her heart rate.

Ahead, the hall led to the main entrance. Moonlight came through both the kitchen’s and the living room’s archways.

She could see the light switches beside the front door. She’d turn them on. Flood the lower levels with brightness, chase back the heaviness of night until she could forget the hour. Then she would make a drink and something to eat. She’d make the meal rich and heavy, more than she should really have so late, so that it weighted her limbs and pulled her eyes closed and let her drift off without any other care.

She pushed off from the wall. Two steps along the hallway, she brought herself to a halt.

Light came from the living room. She’d assumed it was moonlight, like it flowed out of the kitchen, but that shouldn’t be possible. The curtains had been closed when she’d passed through that afternoon.

Her eyes traced across the glow on the floor. It was harsher, colder than moonlight. Artificial. A low hissing, spitting sound barely reached her ears. Static.

Someone had turned the television on.

18

Margot’s lungs froze. She inched forward, her feet gliding silently over the floor, as she strained to see inside the living room.

The hissing static grew louder as she approached. The ancient box television’s screen was lit up in flickering grays, painting a spreading rectangle of light across the floors and sagging seats.

Someone’s in the house.

Her eyes flicked toward the front door. It was still closed. She’d made certain to lock it after Kant left.

That means very little. There are other doors in this building. Ones I haven’t even seen yet.

The house felt quiet, though. There was a heaviness to the air that made it hard for her to imagine anyone else disturbing it recently.

She took another step toward the living room. The Watcher was against the opposite wall. Its metals and stones shone in the reflected light, like a thousand eyes blinking at her.

How else could the television turn on? Could a surge in the power spark it to life?