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the trees. She could barely even see the trees. What had John seen? And where was he now?
    What if someone else was in the house?
    She stood in the darkness, shivering uncontrollably. Cold sweat dotted her upper lip and trickled down the middle of her back. The old tune was running through her head in an endless loop. Relentless. Suffocating. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.
    London Bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down…
    Then she heard it. A pinging sound, coming from the back of the house. Was someone moving around her bedroom?
    She remembered the knife block beside the stove. Could she…if it came to that? Could she thrust a knife into someone’s body?
    Falling down…falling down…
    The pinging started again.
    With effort, she unfolded one arm from around her waist and stretched it, painfully, toward the knives. She felt around until she gripped the handle of the butcher knife, slid it carefully out of its slot, then retracted her arm, bringing the knife close to her body.
    Ping… Ping… Ping…
    She held her breath.
    Maybe he’s come for me at last. I always knew he would.
    “No,” she whispered to the darkness. “No one wants to kill me.” She edged her way down to the end of the counter and stood with her back to the wall, straining to listen for sounds over the pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears. Her living room was filled with sinister-looking shadows and dark shapes that could be a person.
    Hiding.
    Waiting.
    She could no longer hear the pinging from her bedroom. Why had it stopped? As though it had a mind of its own, her hand raised the butcher knife higher, grasped it tighter. Was John outside or inside?
    The floorboards in the hallway between her bedroom and office began to creak. She tried to swallow but her spit had dried up. If it was John, wouldn’t he say something? Let her know it was just him?
    “John?” she whispered, knowing he probably couldn’t hear her.
    No answer. But the floorboards stopped creaking.
    She closed her eyes. She badly wanted to shout out his name. Or yell for help. Or do something. Anything but stand here with her back to the wall and wait for whoever it was to sneak up and stick a knife in her chest.
    I love you…
    Thud.
    Nausea churned in her stomach. Too much wine. Too many terrifying memories, sounds and images that appeared as though in a dream. She wasn’t sure she knew what was real anymore. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She screamed and pivoted, hit a wall of muscle.
    “Fuck! What the— Jesus, Hannah, it’s me!”
    “John?”
    He reached behind her and flipped the light on. Hannah blinked at the sudden brightness, and then gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Blood coated the tip of the butcher knife she still held close to her chest, the point facing John. Her arm went limp. The knife hit the linoleum floor with a clatter.
    “Oh my God.” She backed away from him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean— I thought it was him !”
    “Why were you holding a butcher knife?” He lifted up his navy sweater and tee shirt, and studied the oozing red slice the knife had made just over his bottom rib.
    Hannah felt sick at the sight of it. “Oh God. I stabbed you.” She raised her eyes to his face and saw the confusion there. “I didn’t even move the knife, the point was just sticking out and you pulled me close…”
    To her surprise he grinned. “This is what I get for making a move on you, huh?”
    “We have to get you to a doctor,” she said, too upset to be amused.
    “Let’s just clean it up. I don’t think it’s very deep.”
    She led him into the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet lid and grabbed a washcloth from the small cabinet under the sink. She soaked it in cold water and turned to him—and saw he was bare-chested.
    She inhaled sharply, but stopped herself before she said, Holy mother of God or Holy shit or an equally blasphemous expression that would have revealed