= Part Two =
"She's already dead."
I got back from school the first day of class my senior year to find blood on the floor. I unlocked the front door, juggling an armful of books, and as I stepped inside, my jaw dropped.
Splattered all over Mrs. Harding's immaculate kitchen were dark crimson stains – a small puddle had gathered on and under one of the kitchen chairs, and red footsteps crisscrossed the white tile floor. A trail of blood led from the front door to the bloody chair, and then to the stairs.
I threw my books down on the counter and ran across the kitchen, trying to keep from stepping in the blood. I took the stairs two at a time and burst through the door at the top of the staircase.
The living room was empty. The trail of blood led forward, across the carpeted floor and under the door to Shannon's room. I sank against the doorframe for a moment, paralyzed and shaking. Who had done this? I asked myself silently. Was it Shannon who had lost all this blood? What would it take to make a human being bleed like that…?
"Jesus Christ," I whispered.
I sprinted for the door. As I was reaching for the doorknob, it opened from the other side. Shannon stood in the doorway, her customary men's button-up shirt's sleeves rolled up and her arms covered in blood to her elbows. Her eyes widened as I skidded to a stop inches in front of her, and she quickly pulled the door shut behind her.
"Sarah!" she said, seeming startled. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here, Shannon!" I shouted at her. I was starting to feel dizzy. It didn't look like Shannon's blood, at least.
The door behind Shannon opened again, and a man's gray face peered out. Shannon turned her back to me and he whispered something to her. It was too quiet to pick up, but I thought I'd heard the words "girl" and "dead." Shannon replied, again too softly for me to hear, and the man disappeared back into Shannon's room.
"What's going on?" I asked, my heart pounding. Shannon didn't look hurt; blood stained the front of her shirt and dripped from her hands, but she seemed fine. "Are you okay? Who…?" I asked, trying to see past Shannon into the room.
She smoothly pulled the door shut behind her.
"Not now, Sarah," she said quietly. Her normally impassive face seemed strained; some part of me vaguely wondered when the last time she had slept was.
"Yes, now!" I said, louder than I meant to. My hands were trembling and I bit my lip. I went on, in a quiet, tense voice, "You've been disappearing for months, and I let you. I stopped asking you where you've been going. I can respect you for wanting to keep your life private, even if it frustrates the hell out of me. I appreciate everything you've done for me, I really do. But, Shannon! This –" I jabbed a finger at the door, "goes way past what you can possibly expect me to ignore!"
She shook her head. "Sarah, I—"
I wasn't hearing any of it. "What's going on?" I demanded. I pushed past Shannon and reached for the doorknob. Shannon grabbed my wrist. I think it was the first time she touched me, not counting handshakes and the occasional bump or brush-by; her grip was cold and hard. I couldn't turn the knob.
"She's already dead, Sarah," she said in a soft voice. "There's nothing you can do…"
"Dead," I repeated dumbly. I pulled my arm away from her, angry red streaks left around my wrist from the blood on Shannon's hands. Dead! screamed my thoughts. My knees threatened to buckle. A small voice somewhere in the back of my mind laughed, disgusted – I could never have been a doctor, after all! My eyes fixed on the bloodstains on the carpet. Shannon had blood up to her elbows. The girl… whoever she was… was dead. Nothing more you can do.
I fell to my knees, black spots swimming before my eyes. As if from far away, I heard Shannon saying, "Sarah! Sarah…" The world went dark.
* * *
It took me a long time to figure out where I was when I opened my eyes. I was lying in a bed on my back, still in my clothes, the covers pulled up to my waist. It wasn't my bed. And it couldn't have been Shannon's; she'd never once invited me into her room, and besides, Shannon's bed would be soaked with blood…
Blood! I sat bolt upright. Everything that had happened rushed back to me all at once, like remembering a nightmare. I looked down at my wrist – the bloody handprint was still there. Some parts were still foggy; she'd grabbed my wrist, and I'd pulled away… yes, that's right, that was when I'd fainted… Fainted! I felt my face color when I remembered. My father would have been so disappointed in me, I thought miserably. I shook my head; that train of thought was a bad idea. There would be more than enough time for that later.
I looked around me. I had been placed in a comfortable, if smallish, room full of books and old-fashioned furniture. "Mrs. H's room!" I said aloud. It was the bedroom of the little suite; I'd seen it once before, when I'd been in to borrow a book from the Professor.
I stood up. I needed to go find Shannon, to figure out what needed to be done. My stomach lurched at the thought of going back up the stairs, following the blood trail to God knows what might lay at the end of it…
"Sit down, Sarah."
I jumped at the voice and turned. Shannon stood in the doorway, looking tired. Her hands were clean, and I could see she'd just changed her shirt. As her eyes slid over me, appraising, she deftly buttoned her cuffs. That put the final touch on her usual crisp appearance – a gray, long-sleeved men's dress shirt with collar and cuffs neatly buttoned, and black cargo pants. I hadn't ever realized it before, but the consistency of Shannon's wardrobe had become comforting: another reason finding her with blood up to her elbows had been so startling. But now all the blood was gone; her hair – so dark brown it looked almost black against her unusually pale skin – was smoothed and tucked behind her ears, and if it weren't for the red marks still staining my wrist, I would have wondered if it all hadn't been a dream after all.
Though my head was a little clearer now, I still felt dizzy, and I hoped desperately, with no small amount of inward embarrassment, that I wouldn't pass out again. I sat back down on the bed.
"It's alright," Shannon said, sitting down in Mrs. H's comfortable armchair. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," she said. I felt my cheeks burning and stared at my feet. It was uncanny, how often Shannon could guess so easily what I was thinking.
When I thought the blush had faded, I looked up at her. She seemed even more pale than usual, her face drawn. Her fingers laced together across her chest as she leaned back in the chair, her pose deceptively casual. I sighed. She was very tall, five-ten or -eleven at least, and though you didn't really notice it when you first met her, she was thin in a wiry sort of way. She had a habit of taking walks, sometimes very late at night, tapping out a staccato with her old hook-handled umbrella as she went; I never worried about her being out so late -- I suspected she was stronger than she looked. She was also quite possibly the most alert individual I'd ever met; by now, I'd figured out that Shannon looking relaxed meant bad news. It would take living with her to know it, but she was worried.
"What's going on, Shannon?" I asked her slowly.
"Let's go upstairs; Mrs. H was very kind to let us borrow her bedroom for a while, but I think you're okay to walk now." She caught my alarmed glance at the door and shook her head. "It's all been cleaned up," she said.
I followed her upstairs. She hadn't lied; the kitchen was as sparkling white as it had ever been, the blood having been mopped up. Even the carpet on the stairs and floor upstairs was clean, except for a few slightly darker areas where the bleach and water hadn't dried yet. I sat down in my favorite spot, an overstuffed armchair in front of the little fireplace. It wasn't lit this time of year, but I thought it was comforting anyway. I took a deep breath, thankfully starting to feel a little less ill.
Shannon pulled the door closed behind us. She slid a little chain lock into place, the kind you see on the inside of hotel room doors; I'd seen it, but I'd never really thought about what it might be for. Shannon crossed the room quickly, drawing the blinds of both the windows.
"I'll be right back, Sarah," she said quickly. She slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her. I sighed and looked around.
This upstairs living room -- really a parlor of sorts -- was easily the largest room in the house, but closed off as it now was, it felt like the smallest. Bookshelves loomed high over my shoulders as I seated myself in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the unlit fireplace. From the mantle, knick-knacks of every description glittered in the soft light creeping through the window blinds. Some sort of African-looking masks leered at me from the walls amidst a thousand newspaper clippings, photos, posters, and other chaotically arranged memorabilia. An old-fashioned standing mirror leaned in the corner. Everything was remarkably void of dust, and I marveled at Mrs. H's ability to keep it all polished, if not organized.
The computer desk in the corner was piled high with papers and other small items, everything from a magnifying glass, to a set of small statuettes, to what looked like a few stray test-tubes. I seemed to recall Shannon saying something about a Chemistry experiment of some sort at dinner a few nights ago; I wondered briefly where she kept her chemicals. As I looked around the room, I couldn't see much space for them – every surface was covered in the jumble of papers and other… I blinked. I was almost positive that, on the shelf just under the window there, I'd caught sight of a gun! What would Shannon be doing with a gun? She was only a year older than I was; that would certainly be illegal, much less dangerous, and—
Abruptly, the bedroom door swung open and Shannon reappeared, a thick brown accordion file tucked under her arm. She shut the door behind her again quickly before coming over to lounge in the chair opposite mine. As she set the file down on the coffee table between us, I wondered briefly whether she'd cleaned up the blood in her own room yet; probably not. Shannon leaned back in her chair and bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, fingers steepled across her chest.
"Your name is Sarah Anne Watson," she said suddenly. Her eyelids flickered open, and something strained in her voice made me lean forward attentively. "You grew up with both of your parents, Anne and Patrick Watson."
I nodded slowly. I had no idea what this had to do with the blood or… any of the rest of it, but I bit back my curiosity and fear. By this time, I knew Shannon well enough to have learned I was better to let her come to it in her own time.
"Your family comes from a long line of doctors," she went on, her voice intense and quiet. "Your father practiced, as did his father before him and so on, back further than even I know of." I shifted uncomfortably; we both knew the subject of my withdrawal from the study of medicine was still sensitive. She went on as if she hadn't noticed. "But you broke the tradition. If there's one thing your family all recognize about you, it's that you don't belong in the medical field."
I felt my cheeks burning yet again. "Shannon," I said, my tone sharp, "I really don't see what this has to do with—"
"And that's why it took me so long to come to you," she said. It was like she hadn't heard me, or was ignoring me completely. I shook my head, confused.
"What do you mean, 'came to me?' " I asked. "We just met in class…"
Late afternoon shadows slid over the room in thin horizontal bars of brightness and shade; Shannon's slate-gray eyes glinted at me in the half light. "Just listen to me, Watson," she said.
I sat back in my chair, a strange feeling overwhelming me. She had called me by my last name! For the first time, she had called me Watson. Something about the simple change in her form of address touched a chord in me; I closed my mouth, subsiding. Shannon's eyes flickered; my reaction hadn't escaped her notice.
"It's no coincidence that we met in class, Watson," she said. The name came quickly to her lips. "I enrolled and picked that class on purpose, knowing you were in it. And it was no accident that I sat next to you." She paused, holding me with her gaze. "I came looking for you."