She climbs the stairs to the studio—her footsteps loud, clattering—she wants Sheila to know that she is here—she is here—and she is damned angry.

She calls out: “Sheila?—it’s Monica. Let me in.”

She raps at the door. Tries the handle.

“Sheila? Are you there? I know you’re there—let me in.”

The door is locked, no one answers. Monica had a single glass of bourbon to fortify herself before driving over and it seems to her the bourbon did do some good, her nerves are tingling with excitement, with exhilaration, her voice does not shake, she is very much in control.

“Sheila? Please—it’s Monica.”

She tries the doorknob again.

She stands panting, head bent, listening, to the floorboards creaking a few yards away. Sheila? Sheila, listening intently to her? She can see the woman’s white, tense, cunning face . . . the sickly radiance of her soul . . . those dark eyes flashing with malice, with spite, triumph. . . . Monica hates her, yes, truly, Monica Jensen hates Sheila Trask, but they have gone too far for that, it is too late for that, she wishes her dead, yes, but she is faint with terror that perhaps the woman is dead and she has come too late to help.

“Sheila please,” she says softly, now leaning her head against the door, “—God damn you, please.”

She can sense that Sheila has come to stand close by; on the other side of the door. A foot away. Less than a foot away. On tiptoe, in stealth, in spite and triumph, Sheila, her nerves taut as Monica’s, her skin as burning, eyes narrowed. No she will not unlock the door. Yes she will—she must.

But no. Evidently it is to be no.

She presses her warm face against the door, close, very close, to Monica’s, her skin is a dull sickly white, Monica can feel the heat of her body, its secret trembling. Monica says softly: “Sheila—I know you’re there. I want you to unlock this door. Do you hear? I want proof that you’re all right. Then I’ll go away again—I promise. But I want proof, God damn you, that you’re all right—that you haven’t hurt yourself—you aren’t sick. Do you hear?”

She hears the woman’s breathing—ah, unmistakably!—quick, hard, hot, panting. An animal’s cunning, an animal’s panic. That rank fleshy smell.

When she turns the doorknob she can feel Sheila’s grip—Sheila’s resistance.

Monica drops her voice, says in a honeysweet drawl: “You, Sherrill Ann, I know you’re there, so come on. Sherrill Ann? Hon? This is Mary Beth—you know who this is.”

But the ploy is awkward, unconvincing; embarrassing.

Monica will henceforth hate Sheila all the more, for having brought her to such shame.