Hannah hadn’t expected to cry.

But after Ben had called from a gas station and told her about the boat explosion, she hung up the phone and burst into tears. She kept wondering why she was crying over the death of someone who had made her so miserable for so many years. Kenneth was a son of a bitch, but she hadn’t wanted him to die.

Maybe she was crying for herself—for the poor, stupid waitress/actress who had just lost her father, and who had fallen for a cocky, charming man she’d known was all wrong for her. She’d had such great hopes back then, such potential. Perhaps Hannah was finally allowing herself to mourn for that young woman, and everything Kenneth Woodley had done to her. Whatever the reason, she wept for almost an hour, stepping out to the balcony much of the time so Guy wouldn’t hear.

Ben came back around eight o’clock. Hannah gasped at the sight of him. One side of his handsome face was swollen, and his shirt was splattered with blood.

While he was washing up, Hannah went into Guy’s room and told him that Ben had fallen off a bicycle. That didn’t stop Guy from cringing—then crying—when he saw Ben’s battered face a few minutes later. Ben stayed with him a while and managed to calm him down.

Hannah retreated to the kitchen, where she warmed up some of her macaroni and cheese souffle. She also loaded two Ziploc bags full of ice; one for Ben’s face, and the other to assuage the pain from a strike below the belt. Typical Kenneth.

“He’s sleeping,” Ben announced, coming from the hallway. He winced a bit as he sat down at the counter.

“Here,” Hannah said, handing him the impromptu ice bags. “One’s for your face, and the other one’s for your—whatevers.”

“My whatevers thank you,” Ben said, putting one ice bag between his legs, then holding the other to his jaw. “I tried that choo-choo-train routine with Guy, the one you do to help him fall asleep. And it worked. He’s really sweet, Hannah. Rest assured, there’s none of his dad in him.”

Hannah removed a saucepan from the burner. “I have vegetables steaming,” she said. “They need a few more minutes. I’ll get lost, go clean the bathroom or something. Why don’t you call your wife?”

“Did Jennifer call here?”

“No,” Hannah said. “But you should call her. She helped you set up that meeting. She knows it was dangerous. She’s probably worried.”

“You don’t mind?” he asked.

She took the cordless phone out of its cradle and handed it to him. “Call her.”

Hannah headed down the hallway. She went into Guy’s room and tidied up while he slept. She could hear Ben talking on the phone, but tried not to listen. In a strange way, she was glad he hadn’t thought to call his wife. It gave her a chance to be noble. After playing house with Ben Podowski for the last two nights, this was a good reality check for both of them.

Still, a couple of minutes later, as she tossed some things in the bathroom hamper, Hannah couldn’t help catching part of his conversation with Jennifer.

“No, I can’t,” Ben was saying. “Not for few more days. It could even be a few more weeks…. No, she’s leaving town very soon, but I need to stay. I’m involved in this now…. I’ll know more later. Either way, I can’t leave, honey…. Well, I know, but I’m not going anywhere until I find out who’s responsible for Rae…. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep, honey. Thanks again—for everything.”

Hannah felt a little tug at her heart. She’d wanted a reality check, but hearing him call Jennifer “honey” was a little too real.

Clearing her throat, Hannah started up the hallway. She turned the corner in time to see Ben put down the cordless phone.

“You were right,” he sighed. “Jennifer said she was freaking out over this meeting. She was hoping I’d call.”

Hannah walked around to the other side of the counter. “It’s nice to have someone to worry about you at times,” she said, serving up his dinner. She set the plate in front of him. “Think you can chew without it hurting?”

“I’ll give it a try,” he said, putting aside the ice bag and picking up his fork. “Thanks, Hannah. This looks great.”

She poured each of them a glass of wine. “After all the phoning and e-mailing back and forth, now there’s this boat explosion. They’re going to think I arranged it.” Hannah sighed. “How much time do you think we have before the police are banging on that door?”

“There wasn’t much left of the boat,” Ben said, frowning. “It might take a few hours to connect the yacht to Kenneth—and then to Kirkabee. Chances are pretty good Kirkabee already gave his agency your name and address, Hannah.” He took a sip of wine. “My guess is we might be okay here tonight. But you’d be pushing your luck to stay on any longer than noon tomorrow.”

“God,” she murmured. “Everything’s closing in at the same time.” Hannah reached on top of the refrigerator, where she’d stashed the photos Paul Gulletti had given her. She set them near Ben’s plate. “I think these pictures mean he’s very close to killing me.”

Ben studied the pictures.

“Paul came by tonight and delivered those,” Hannah said. “He found them on his desk this morning—”

“You let him in while you were alone here with Guy?” Ben asked. “Hannah, you shouldn’t have taken a chance like that—”

“I don’t think it’s Paul,” she cut in. “He told me about the photos we found in his desk. Someone has been leaving those pictures for him in weird places—under his office door, in his coat pocket. It’s a pattern. First come the candid shots of the girl; then, a day or two later, the pictures from a movie murder. And after that, it happens for real—to the girl in the candids.”

“So why didn’t he call the police?” Ben asked.

“He’s married, Ben. He’s afraid. He was involved with the first two victims.”

“So you think it’s Seth?”

She frowned. “I want to read this essay he wrote for Paul. Maybe I can figure out his way of thinking. I have a hunch the other murders—those two rude customers, Ronald Craig and Britt, Kenneth and the other private detective, even the attempt on your life—I have a feeling those people were killed as part of some weird manipulative game he was playing with me.”

“I don’t understand,” Ben said, putting the ice pack on his cheek again.

“I think the explanation might be in this essay Seth wrote and Paul ripped off. It’s in a book called Darkness, Light, and Shadow. Paul said he’d try to get me a copy.”

“I don’t think you’ll have time for that, Hannah. You need to leave here tomorrow.”

Hannah started to refill his wineglass.

Ben shook his head. “No more for me, thanks,” he said. “In fact, I could use some coffee—if you don’t mind making it. I need to step out again.”

“Where are you going?”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “There’s still another hour of class. Seth won’t be home for a while. His roommate could be out, too. This might be a good time to take a look at that garage apartment of his. Maybe Seth has a copy of the book you’re talking about.”

Ben lowered the ice bag from his face. “And I’d also like to check out his collection of home videos.”

 

He stopped to catch his breath as he stood in front of the Tudor estate on Aloha Street. Ben started down the long driveway toward the garage. He could see his breath in the cold night air. Most of the trees surrounding the estate had lost their leaves already, and the old mansion seemed rather sinister against the indigo sky. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows, but it didn’t look like anybody was home. It was so deathly quiet, he could hear the wind whistling through those naked trees.

All at once, a dog started barking. Ben froze for a moment. He glanced over at the main house. A light went on over the front door, and Ben quickly ducked into some bushes at the side of the driveway. The dog’s incessant yelping continued.

Ben waited, and watched the front of the house. After a couple of minutes, the dog finally shut up. Ben crept out of the bushes, but then two cars—one after another—sped down Aloha Street. He almost jumped back into the shrubbery, yet his feet stayed rooted on the pavement.

Ben made his way down the driveway, hovering close to the bushes. He studied the darkened windows on the side of the house. He kept expecting to see a figure standing in one of them—or perhaps a curtain moving. But he didn’t notice anything.

In the mansion’s shadow, the garage area was dark. Ben glanced over his shoulder at the back of the house. He saw lights in three of the upstairs windows, but no sign of life.

He grabbed hold of the stairway bannister on the side of the garage. “Shit,” he muttered. Small wonder Seth didn’t break his neck going up and down the rickety stairs in the dark.

Each step squeaked as Ben made his way toward the landing at the apartment’s entry. It was too much to hope for an unlocked door, but he tried it anyway. No luck. Pulling his credit card from his wallet, he worked it around the lock area. He thought a burglar alarm might go off at any moment, but apparently Seth and his roommate felt they had nothing worth stealing.

Ben gave up and put his Visa back in his wallet. He stopped to stare at a window about three feet from the other side of the landing’s bannister. It had been left open a crack.

He moved over to the edge of the landing, then threw one leg over the railing. The bannister let out a loud creak. As Ben tried to grab at the windowsill, he felt the railing give way beneath him. He quickly pulled back and braced against the door.

Another car sped by on Aloha Street, and for a moment its headlights swept across the driveway, down toward the garage.

Shaken, Ben didn’t move. He peered back at the house again. It occurred to him that they were probably used to a certain amount of noise back here. Two single men in their twenties lived in this garage apartment. The two roommates probably came and went at all hours. How many times had they locked themselves out? Or did they have an extra key someplace?

Ben reached up for the ledge above the doorway, patting the length of it. Nothing. And there wasn’t a key under the doormat. Frowning, Ben glanced down the stairs. By the bottom step was a flowerpot with a dead plant in it.

He crept down the creaky stairs. Each squeak underfoot seemed amplified in the still night. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs. He moved aside the heavy flowerpot, and found a key.

Skulking back up the steps, Ben prayed the key would open Seth’s door.

It worked.

The apartment was warm, and a bit smelly—like a poorly vented locker room: sweat, testosterone, and dirty clothes. Closing the door behind him, Ben waited for a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He stood in the living room. A newspaper was strewn on one end of the Salvation Army sofa, and a couple of beer cans littered the coffee table, along with copies of Premiere magazine and Entertainment Weekly.

Ben saw a stack of videos by the TV. He checked the boxes. Six videos had Emerald City Video labels on them, and two of these were porn movies. There were store-bought, slightly beat-up copies of Goodfellas and Apocalypse Now. Three unlabeled videos rounded out his collection.

Peering out the window, Ben checked the house and the driveway. He decided to take a chance, and switched on one of the living-room lamps. He had stay low now; he couldn’t afford to be seen in the window. He switched on the TV and turned the volume to mute.

Popping the first unlabeled video into the VCR, Ben wasn’t sure what he’d see; perhaps some surveillance of Hannah, or maybe Rae’s death, or even someone else’s murder.

What Ben saw was an old Seinfeld rerun. He pressed fast-forward, then stopped in several places on the tape. All he came up with were a couple of other old sitcoms and part of a Saturday Night Live.

Ben found more of the same with the other two unlabeled tapes. He spent over a half hour reviewing them. But he didn’t just watch the TV. He also checked the brick-and-board bookshelf for more videos and the book Hannah had wanted. No luck. He unearthed an envelope full of photos, but none of Hannah or Rae; no surveillance shots. They were snapshots of Seth and his roommate—on a hike with some other guys, and at the beach with a cute girl who seemed to be the roommate’s girlfriend. Ben also searched the front hall closet and kitchen cabinets, but he didn’t find anything.

Switching off the television, he went into the bedroom. There was only one bed for the two of them. Ben didn’t think they were gay. The porn tapes from the store indicated that the two roommates weren’t lovers. And if there was any room for doubt, when Ben checked under the bed, he uncovered several Playboy and Hustler magazines. He figured one of the guys must sleep on the sofa.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was past ten-twenty. Seth might be home at any minute.

Still, Ben kept looking—in the dresser drawers, the closet, and the built-in linen cabinet in the bathroom. If Seth Stroud had a secret collection of videos, camera equipment, and photographs, they weren’t here in this apartment.

Ben switched off the overhead in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. All at once, a beam of light swept through the windows. Ben heard a car.

He quickly ducked down. He could hear loose gravel and pebbles crunching under tires as the car came up the drive. His heart racing, he stayed crouched near the floor. There was no other way out, except for those stairs. He’d break his neck if he tried to climb out the bedroom window.

The dog started barking again.

Ben could hear muted music on the car radio, some oldies station; then the engine stopped purring. The headlights died. A car door clicked open. Then another door.

“Well, I don’t want to walk him,” a woman was saying. The car door shut. “Besides, Kaiser will only do a number two for you, honey.”

“Yeah, I bring out the best in him,” the husband replied. Another door shut. “You don’t suppose Phoebe or Chad walked him, do you?”

“Huh, dream on…”

Their voices faded as they walked up the driveway toward the house.

Ben let out a sigh. He wanted to get out of there before Seth or his roommate came back. But now he had to wait for that man to walk his dog and return home. Maybe then they’d turn off the front light.

With a shaky hand, Ben reached up and switched off the lamp in the living room. He would wait on the floor, in the dark. He’d already searched the place. He wasn’t going to find anything. He had a feeling they were wrong about Seth Stroud.

 

Hannah was in her bedroom, packing a second suitcase. She planned to leave tomorrow morning.

She’d called Dr. Donnellan, explaining there was a family emergency in Portland. And did he think—after nine days, and no residual fever or symptoms—that Guy was all right to travel? He’d given a cautionary okay for the commute, so long as Guy was kept comfortable, warm, and as isolated as possible. Hannah had decided to take a cab down to Tacoma. She’d lay low in a cheap hotel for a couple of days. Then they’d take a train to Portland or Eugene, maybe even further south. Guy liked trains.

The intercom buzzed. Ben had been gone for over ninety minutes, and she hoped it was him. She wasn’t expecting anyone else—unless the police worked even faster than she and Ben had figured.

Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, it’s Paul. I brought that film book you wanted. Can I come up?”

Hannah hesitated. “Ah, sure. Just a sec.” She pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. Retrieving the small knife from the kitchen drawer, Hannah hid it in her back pocket again. She unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her.

Paul came from the stairwell. He looked more relaxed this time around, and even had a confident stride to his walk as he approached her. Hannah noticed the book in his hand.

“Do you still have company?” he asked, handing her the book.

She nodded. “Yes. Thanks for bringing this, Paul.”

“I missed you in class tonight,” he said. “You know who else wasn’t there? That Ben What’s-his-name.”

She shrugged. “Well, thanks again, Paul.” She reached for the door.

He stepped toward her, then glanced in the window. “Could I come in for a drink? I’d like to meet these friends of yours.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “Now’s not a good time.”

He smiled. “You don’t really have people over, do you?”

Hannah hesitated.

“Are you afraid of me, Hannah?” He smiled. “I just want to help you.” He reached over and touched her face.

She backed against the door. “Paul, I do have someone here right now. He’s—um, spending the night.”

He frowned. “Is it that Ben character?”

“That’s really none of your business,” she said quietly. “Anyway, thank you for the book—”

“Hannah, I wouldn’t trust him if I were you—”

“I’m all right,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay, Paul? Good night.”

Shaking his head, he turned and started for the stairwell.

Hannah ducked back inside, and locked the door. She slipped the knife out of her back pocket and set it on the kitchen counter. She glanced at the book’s cover. Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film was emblazoned across a series of celluloid strips. Hannah anxiously flipped through the book until she found the piece Paul had stolen from Seth. It was on page 216: Objects of Obsession: Directors and Their Leading Ladies, Essay by Paul Gulletti.

Hannah began reading:

Hannah shook her head and sighed. “God, what a snooze.”

Somewhere, amid the heavy-handed writing and paragraph-long sentences, was a possible explanation for what was happening to her. She read on, and found something in the fifth paragraph:

Hannah grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled down the words voyeur…guardian…manipulator…executioner.

Those were the roles her secret admirer had taken on with her. He made love to her with his camera. And that camera would be focused on her when he carried out her execution.

Hannah started reading again. But the intercom buzzed once more, catching her off guard. She put down the book. Without thinking, Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Ben?”

“Hannah, it’s me again, Paul,” he said urgently. “Let me in.”

“What?”

“It’s important! C’mon, buzz me up.”

“Paul, I told you—”

“Hannah, please,” he said. “Something just happened, and I need to talk with you now. We can meet out on the balcony again. I don’t care. Just buzz me in, goddamn it.”

“All right,” she said. Against all her better judgment, Hannah pressed the entry button. She ran down the hall to Guy’s room to make sure he was asleep. Then she hurried back toward the door, stopping for a moment to grab the knife off the counter. She concealed it in her back pocket again.

Paul was already halfway down the balcony walkway when she stepped outside. He was frazzled, and breathing hard. Hannah noticed he had some photos in his hand.

“What’s going on?” she whispered. “You know, my neighbors just called to complain about us talking out here—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, interrupting her lie. He showed her the photos. His hand was shaking. “I found these in my car just now.”

Hannah numbly stared at the pictures, two high-quality photocopies on card-stock paper: a series of shots off a TV screen, about forty smaller images in sequential order showing Janet Leigh being stabbed in the Psycho shower. Hannah remembered Scott telling her early last week that the store copy of Psycho had been stolen.

“I think he’s out there now,” she heard Paul say. “I locked my car earlier. I don’t know how he got in. I was only up here talking with you for—what, a couple of minutes?” Paul glanced down toward the parking lot. “I’ll bet you anything he’s watching us.”

Hannah was gazing at one of the small photos: Janet Leigh wincing as she tried to fight off her attacker, the knife just a blur in front of her.

“You realize what this means?” Paul asked, pointing to the photos. “Once he gives me a photo of the movie murder, it’s not long before…” He trailed off.

“Before I end up dying just like this,” Hannah murmured. “But no one will know—except maybe the girl after me. He’ll videotape my murder in the shower, then make sure his next leading lady sees it.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, snapping Hannah out of her stupor. “What girl? Whose leading lady?”

“I’m talking about the next girl you’ll be screwing around with, Paul,” she replied, frowning at him. “Your next ‘favorite student,’ my replacement. Can’t you see the pattern? These are women you’ve been involved with—or, in my case, a woman you wanted. We’ve all become his leading ladies, his victims, Objects of Obsession.”

He shook his head. “Hannah, I’ve had nothing to do with any of this—”

“No, you just keep moving on to the next one,” Hannah said. “And you don’t look back. If no one found out, it didn’t happen, right?”

He was still shaking his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. But listen, if you don’t want to go to the police, maybe you should pack up and get out of town, go stay with some old friends, someplace where you know you’ll be safe.”

She backed toward the door. “Thanks, Paul. You can go now.”

“Hannah, please—”

Ducking inside, she closed the door on him, then locked it.

Her back to the door, Hannah suddenly realized that she was stepping right into her killer’s trap. Tomorrow she would leave Seattle a fugitive, and stay the night in a cheap roadside motel.

It was just what Janet Leigh had done in Psycho.

 

Crouched down at the foot of the stairs, Ben put Seth’s key back under the flowerpot. He had watched the owner of the house, a stocky man with red hair, return from walking the dog. Now, only two of the windows were lit up in the big house. It was almost eleven o’clock.

Ben started up the driveway, past the car, a Dodge Caravan. He glanced over his shoulder toward the garage, and stopped. He wondered if the family let Seth store anything in their garage. They didn’t seem to use it for parking their car.

Skulking back toward garage, Ben found the side door, and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. He stepped into the dark two-car garage. It was crammed with so much junk there was no room for a car. A dim shaft of light came from a window on the opposite wall. Ben could make out silhouettes of bicycles, a lawnmower, rakes, brooms, a broken chair on top of a table, old lawn furniture. But he couldn’t see anything else.

Ben noticed the light switch by the door. There was no window along the wall where he stood. No one from the house would know the garage light was on. He decided to take a chance, and flicked on the switch.

All at once, he heard a click, then a loud mechanical humming noise. The light went on, and the garage door started to yawn open.

“Jesus,” Ben murmured, flicking the switch again. The gears shifted noisily. The light from the garage had already spread out to the driveway. But the descending door started to block it out again.

Ben knew he would have to make a run for it. He quickly glanced around the garage while the light was still on, taking everything in before it became dark again. He saw an old kiddie pool, more lawn equipment, old cans of paint stacked up; but no file cabinets or mysterious boxes—nothing where somebody might be storing some secret videotapes or photographs. No one would leave expensive video equipment in such a dusty, unkempt place.

The garage light went out.

Ben opened the door a crack and peered back at the house. No change: the same two windows with lights on. Everything was quiet again.

Slowly he opened the door and stepped outside. In the distance, he could hear a siren. He crept around to the front of the garage. Looking up at the house again, Ben noticed someone at one of the windows. He ducked behind the car.

The wail of the police siren grew louder, closer.

Ben carefully peered above the hood of the Dodge Caravan. He could still see someone in the window. It was the stocky, red-haired man, and he seemed to be looking out toward the garage. He finally turned away, then disappeared from view.

Staying low, Ben darted from behind the car to the bushes at the side of the driveway. It sounded as if the police car or fire truck was coming up Aloha Street. He glanced back to see if he could escape into the neighboring yard. A tall chain-link fence divided the properties.

The siren was deafening now. The trees and houses along Aloha were bathed by a swirling red strobe. He held his breath as the squad car sped past the old Tudor mansion, then continued up the block.

He waited another minute. Staying close to the tall shrubs at the side of the driveway, Ben hurried to the street. Then he started back toward Hannah’s.

 

She hadn’t quite fallen asleep, but she felt herself drifting off. Hannah was lying on the sofa with her head resting on Ben’s lap. He’d covered her with a blanket. From his breathing, just a decibel away from snoring, she guessed he’d nodded off an hour ago. They were both still dressed. It might have been more comfortable in her bed, but she didn’t feel right about that. At the same time, she needed to be with him. Perhaps they were meant to be uncomfortable tonight, a reminder that he was going back to his wife, and in a few hours she would be leaving town.

Ben had been upset with her for letting Paul come by a second and third time tonight. Having found no evidence whatsoever in Seth’s apartment, Ben was now convinced that Paul was the killer.

Perhaps he was right. Though Seth claimed to have written the essay, it was Paul’s name on the piece.

The article kept focusing on the director’s courtship-by-camera with the objects of his obsession. Once again, the author mentioned four stages to this type of fixation, with the director as voyeur, protector, manipulator, and finally, executioner.

Ben had said it was a bit far-fetched to assume someone would commit a series of murders based on some theory about film directors.

“What about Charles Manson basing mass murder on the Beatles song ‘Helter Skelter’?” Hannah had pointed out.

Ben had been worried about her going off alone tomorrow, repeating all of Janet Leigh’s movements in Psycho. He’d mentioned possibly accompanying her—or at least following her to make certain she was safe.

Hannah wondered whether or not it would be easier for the three of them to “disappear” together. Part of her felt the need to end things with Ben now, and just move on. She and Guy had already become too attached to him. She was used to being alone—even when it was scary.

Hannah listened to Ben’s breathing. There was a comfort to that sound, and she felt herself drifting off.

Suddenly, a loud banging jolted her awake. Startled, Ben nearly knocked her off the sofa.

“My God, what’s happening?” Hannah whispered. It took them both a moment to realize someone was pounding on the door.

All at once, Guy let out a shriek.

Hannah bolted off the couch and ran down the hall to his room. She flicked on the light switch.

Guy was sitting up in bed. He’d already thrown back the covers. He was still screaming.

Hannah ran to him, and took him in her arms. Hugging her son, she anxiously glanced around the room.

The pounding outside had stopped.

“What happened, honey? Are you okay?” she asked, trying to get her breath.

Guy pressed his face against her stomach. “A lion was chasing me,” he cried, the words muffled.

Hannah heard the locks clicking on the front door. “Ben?” she called nervously.

“I’m just checking things out,” he answered.

Her hand trembling, Hannah stroked Guy’s hair. “You just had a bad dream, honey. That’s all.” She waited until she heard the front door close, the locks clicking once more. “Ben?” she called again.

A moment later, he appeared in Guy’s doorway. He held up a videocassette in his hand, the label turned in her direction. “They left this,” he whispered. “It’s Vertigo.”

It was another forty-five minutes before Guy was asleep once again. Hannah had taken his temperature: 98.5. Ben had read him some Dr. Suess. Then Hannah had fallen back on her standard choo-choo routine to lull him to dreamland.

Hannah switched off the light in Guy’s room. Ben picked up the Vertigo tape, which he’d left on the floor in the hall, outside Guy’s door.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Didn’t you tell me that Gulletti showed you the shower scene from Psycho? Why is he giving us a tape of Vertigo?”

Hannah shrugged. “Maybe he showed me those pictures to throw me off. I don’t know.” Hannah switched on a light in the living room. “That essay in the film book kept mentioning Vertigo again and again. Maybe this is his way of making a point to me about something.”

Ben frowned. “It was weird, him pounding on the door like that. It’s as if he wants us to see this now—right away.”

“He did something like this before when he tried to kill you. You know, the Bugsy reenactment? He even phoned to tell me it was about to happen.” Hannah took the video from him. “This has that same kind of urgency to it. I think this murder will happen very soon. And I’ve seen Vertigo. Someone will die in a fall.”

Hannah put the Vertigo cassette in her VCR. The tape was cued to start with James Stewart chasing Kim Novak up the stairs of a church bell tower.

Hannah knew the movie, and she knew the scene. Stewart wouldn’t make it to the top; he couldn’t save her. And the object of his obsession would plunge to her death.