He had called it mischief then, this thing that made him make that bold move. But as he sat on his stoop thinking about all these moments he began to wonder if this thing was more than that. And the longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was in fact more. And although he had screwed things up back then, it had taught him something. Maybe he needed to make another dramatic move—if it turned out that he really wanted to risk hurting her and himself again.

Ian tried to clear his head, then went inside.

He paused downstairs in the studio. The unsold pieces from the show that Fire had seen were packed up in boxes. Only two of them had sold. What did Fire think? He hadn’t said. Which meant something. He started up the stairs. And Miss Gita? Would he go and see her for her birthday? And …

Phil was on the phone speaking to Margaret. He was packing. Fuck. How would he be in touch with her now?

Ian stood still in the dark, straining to hear every word. Yes, Phil was leaving. A cab was on its way. He picked up a hammer from a workbench. Tapped it against his palm.

Phil told Margaret to hold on. “Is someone there?” he called out.

Ian didn’t answer. He was tapping harder. But he couldn’t feel it.

Phil called out again and he grunted a reply.

“Could’ve lost your life,” Phil said when Ian reached the landing. “I’ve got your gun here.”

“Oh yeah?” Ian mumbled. “You have a gun. I have a hammer. But you have something to live for. I don’t. I think you luckier than me.”

Ian feel asleep with murder on his mind. He heard the voice in his head for the first time. Kill Margaret. Kill Phil. Kill me.

chapter eight

Halloween fell on a Monday that year.

Two months after the flight of Fire, Sylvia, committed to writing a page a day, had written a hundred and two pages of a new novel, a love story, set in Jamaica, about a writer who meets a blues singer on vacation and comes to believe they’re reincarnated lovers from the days of slavery. The novel on which she’d been working for the past several years was out of her life. Gone. The manuscript bound up with old newspapers and left on the curb with the trash. For trash it was, she’d come to realize. The best novels, she learned, after taking the time to reread the work of Toni Morrison, were not just about skill. They were also about honesty.

The new shape of her consciousness, she knew, was largely the result of her collision with the mind of the man on whom her main character was based. And there were times when she would allow herself to consider that this novel, which came to her slowly but easily, like the dawn with which she rose to write, was not just a piece of fiction but a clever way to engage him without incurring any risks. Being a character in her story, he couldn’t walk away from her, he couldn’t slip off her screen as easily as he’d slipped out of her life. For she controlled him.