squints at the pillow.
A dark shape is there.
An ant.
She thinks: This is both creepy and ironic, an ant here in the room at the same time sheâs investigating a murder involving ants. But then she looks closer. Its face is familiar. The corrupted heart shape. The demonic barbs at the top of its head. Serrated mandibles open and closing. Antennae tickling the air. Itâs one of them.
Another sound. Above her once more. Tink-tink-tink.
Hannah looks up. Thereâs an air-conditioning vent. A small black speck is crawling out of it. Another ant.
Another two come out. Then another four. Then ants are pouring from the slots. They spill out as Hannah scrambles off the bed, slipping and slamming backward, her shoulder cracking hard into the wallâ
I wrote that e-mail.
I shouldnât have written it.
Now theyâre coming to kill me .
The ants sweep over the edge of the bed, hungry jaws working,antennae seeking the airâ seeking her . She screams as they spill toward her. Her legs kick out and she propels herself toward the far wall, pointing herself at the doorway outâbut there, something underneath her feet. She dances away from it.
Black water spills out from under the door.
No. Not water.
A spreading pool of insects. Black and shiny. She feels them on her now, crawling up her bare feet, skittering up her calves and her thighsâ
A pinch of skin, a sharp stick like from a thumbtackâ
And she wakes in her bed, screaming, the sheets tangled around her. Sheâs slick with a patina of sweat. Hannah paws at her arms, her legs. Nothing. She quickly flips on the lamp, looking aroundâ
Nothing.
No ants.
Just a dream.
âStupid brain,â she says, almost laughing, almost crying.
8
U p before dawn, hounded by the dream from only hours before, Hannah comes out of the shower, serpents of steam released when she opens the door.
Her phone is lit up with a new text message.
           Hollis: Whatever you did, you did it. Aloha, Ms. Stander. Enjoy Hawaii.
9
S itting alone on a private jet feels apocalyptic. Like Hannah is the last person in the world. The plane has pilots, of course, but it is only her back here among the beige leather seats, the small tables, the little kitchen.
Outside the window, wisps of cloud whip past. Down below she sees where the crooked line of North American land meets the deep cerulean of the Pacific. The crinkle-cut margins of the shoreline look not unlike the way the ants scissored through the victimâs skin.
Hannah grabs a wrapped sandwich and a Boylan cream soda from the kitchen, then heads back to her seat. The sandwich is labeled WESTPHALIAN HAM, GRUYÃRE, CONCORD GRAPES, MICRO-WATERCRESS, STONE-GROUND MUSTARD .
While she eats, she researches Arca and its founder and CEO, Einar Geirsson. The plane has Wi-Fi, and she has a fairly good feeling that whatever she looks up, Arca will know. But her goal here isnât occulted, and so she figures: Let them look .
She pulls up Einar on her MacBook. This isnât the first time sheâs seen a photo of him, but sheâs never really taken a good look. He has been a fixture of innovation for the last six, maybe seven years, but most of what ends up online is the results of his efforts, and not him. He tends to avoid the spotlight and media attention.
So itâs surprising that his website looks, as Ez pointed out, a lot like a portfolio for a model: so many pictures of Einar, always with the wind-tousled swoop of his sand-blond hair, the boyish cheeks, the Puckish grin. Those eyes: not quite blue, not quite gray. Still as the frozen water of a deep lake in winter.
Images of Einar surfing, diving, cooking, playing acoustic guitar. Images of him helping scrub black goop off an oil-sodden pelican, walking the line at one of his manufacturing facilities, peering soulfully at a mosquito trapped in amber.
It all feels so artificial, so
A dark shape is there.
An ant.
She thinks: This is both creepy and ironic, an ant here in the room at the same time sheâs investigating a murder involving ants. But then she looks closer. Its face is familiar. The corrupted heart shape. The demonic barbs at the top of its head. Serrated mandibles open and closing. Antennae tickling the air. Itâs one of them.
Another sound. Above her once more. Tink-tink-tink.
Hannah looks up. Thereâs an air-conditioning vent. A small black speck is crawling out of it. Another ant.
Another two come out. Then another four. Then ants are pouring from the slots. They spill out as Hannah scrambles off the bed, slipping and slamming backward, her shoulder cracking hard into the wallâ
I wrote that e-mail.
I shouldnât have written it.
Now theyâre coming to kill me .
The ants sweep over the edge of the bed, hungry jaws working,antennae seeking the airâ seeking her . She screams as they spill toward her. Her legs kick out and she propels herself toward the far wall, pointing herself at the doorway outâbut there, something underneath her feet. She dances away from it.
Black water spills out from under the door.
No. Not water.
A spreading pool of insects. Black and shiny. She feels them on her now, crawling up her bare feet, skittering up her calves and her thighsâ
A pinch of skin, a sharp stick like from a thumbtackâ
And she wakes in her bed, screaming, the sheets tangled around her. Sheâs slick with a patina of sweat. Hannah paws at her arms, her legs. Nothing. She quickly flips on the lamp, looking aroundâ
Nothing.
No ants.
Just a dream.
âStupid brain,â she says, almost laughing, almost crying.
8
U p before dawn, hounded by the dream from only hours before, Hannah comes out of the shower, serpents of steam released when she opens the door.
Her phone is lit up with a new text message.
           Hollis: Whatever you did, you did it. Aloha, Ms. Stander. Enjoy Hawaii.
9
S itting alone on a private jet feels apocalyptic. Like Hannah is the last person in the world. The plane has pilots, of course, but it is only her back here among the beige leather seats, the small tables, the little kitchen.
Outside the window, wisps of cloud whip past. Down below she sees where the crooked line of North American land meets the deep cerulean of the Pacific. The crinkle-cut margins of the shoreline look not unlike the way the ants scissored through the victimâs skin.
Hannah grabs a wrapped sandwich and a Boylan cream soda from the kitchen, then heads back to her seat. The sandwich is labeled WESTPHALIAN HAM, GRUYÃRE, CONCORD GRAPES, MICRO-WATERCRESS, STONE-GROUND MUSTARD .
While she eats, she researches Arca and its founder and CEO, Einar Geirsson. The plane has Wi-Fi, and she has a fairly good feeling that whatever she looks up, Arca will know. But her goal here isnât occulted, and so she figures: Let them look .
She pulls up Einar on her MacBook. This isnât the first time sheâs seen a photo of him, but sheâs never really taken a good look. He has been a fixture of innovation for the last six, maybe seven years, but most of what ends up online is the results of his efforts, and not him. He tends to avoid the spotlight and media attention.
So itâs surprising that his website looks, as Ez pointed out, a lot like a portfolio for a model: so many pictures of Einar, always with the wind-tousled swoop of his sand-blond hair, the boyish cheeks, the Puckish grin. Those eyes: not quite blue, not quite gray. Still as the frozen water of a deep lake in winter.
Images of Einar surfing, diving, cooking, playing acoustic guitar. Images of him helping scrub black goop off an oil-sodden pelican, walking the line at one of his manufacturing facilities, peering soulfully at a mosquito trapped in amber.
It all feels so artificial, so
Similar Books
