The Glimpsing (34 page)

It was then, as she stared at the
stiletto, that a vision exploded in her mind’s
eye.
 
It was so brilliant, so vivid, that for a moment, she actually became disoriented.
 
What she saw was the bedroom—and her blood covering each and every one of its magnificent walls.

This is where it happens, Gabrielle thought, recalling the dark premonition she’d been suffering.
 
 
She peered at the knife and put a hand to her stomach.
 
Today, in this bedroom, I’m going to die.

As if to prevent this, Gabrielle reached forward and fastened a hand around the hilt of the stiletto.
 
She tugged at it, hoping to dislodge the blade from the wood, but it wouldn’t move.

She joined her other hand to it, gripped it more tightly, and pulled harder.
 
Still, the knife wouldn’t budge.
 
Growing frustrated, she leaned against the hilt, first trying to force it forward, and, when that wasn't successful, pulling back on it with all her weight.
 
But it was as if the blade had been cemented in concrete.

She relinquished the knife, feeling a small sense of relief.
 
Perhaps this was not how it was going to happen after all.
 
Perhaps she was just letting things get to her.
 
It would take the strength of several men to dislodge the blade.

Just then, she noticed something in the vanity mirror.
 
It was the reflection of a closet door which was standing open about a foot.
 
Deep inside, she thought she could make out the faint blush of something red.

She turned, facing the closet.
 
She saw it once more, a strange red swath sitting high in the darkness.
 
She frowned, thinking it might be an article of clothing, perhaps a scarf, but its peculiar shape made her uncertain.

She began toward the closet, moving slowly, cautiously, mindful of nothing beyond that increasingly vivid red.
 
Jack watched her excitedly, not knowing what was drawing her to the closet, but not caring either.
 
As such, neither of them noticed that Portia was standing in the bedroom doorway.

She gazed at Gabrielle icily, watching the woman move toward the closet door, an ethereal and seemingly eerie silhouette against the dusk-darkened curtains of the rear window.
 
And just as Gabrielle began reaching forward, about to open the closet door, one by one, Portia quietly eased her feet out of her heels.

Having opened the door, Gabrielle found herself peering into a large closet that was completely empty except for a painting that hung on the wall to her left.
 
 
She stepped inside, and went to it.

The source of the red, she could now see, had actually been a boldly painted red dress.
 
As Gabrielle examined it more closely, it became apparent that this was the painting Portia had just told her of, the one she’d made during her suicide attempt.
 
But there was something very odd about it: the woman she’d painted was not alone.
 
Three men occupied the canvas as well.
 
Three men that Gabrielle could readily identify: Collin Freely, Portia’s first agent, Thomas McCain, and, strangely enough, Jack Parke.

Gabrielle was perturbed.
 
She couldn’t understand why Portia had neglected to tell her about the men, all of whom were former boyfriends.
 
Even more baffling was how, if it was true that she’d completed the painting twelve years ago when she was eighteen, both Jack and Thomas, men she’d met only within the last year, were painted on its canvas.

“I see you've found it,” a voice cracked from outside the closet.

Startled, Gabrielle jerked her head around and looked out into the bedroom.
 
There she saw Portia standing in front of the vanity—for some inexplicable reason in her bare feet.
 
“Oh, you frightened me,” Gabrielle said, placing a hand over her chest.

“Sorry,” Portia said without a trace of emotion.

An
embarrassed
grin was beginning on Gabrielle's face, but Portia’s cheerless gaze would not allow it to complete.
 
“I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to pry.”

Gabrielle waited for a reply, but none came.
 
Feeling like she had offended Portia by entering the closet, she eased her way out.
 
She was placing a hand on the closet door, intending to close it, when Portia snapped: “Don't do that.”

Gabrielle looked up.
 
“Do what?”

“Close that door.”

Gabrielle glanced at the door.
 
“Why not?”

“Bad omen,” Portia said, her voice cracking just slightly.

Gabrielle once more glanced at the door,
then
let her hand drift away.
 
“Is something wrong?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What?”

Portia merely stared, blinking twice.

Feeling awkward, Gabrielle said: “
Listen,
if it's about me going into your closet, I really am—”

“It's not,” Portia said, cutting her off.

“Then what is it, Portia?
 
What's wrong?”

Portia stepped to her left, exposing the hilt of the stiletto, then inched a haunch onto the vanity.
 
“I have something to ask you, Gabrielle?”

“Okay,” Gabrielle said meekly.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

Gabrielle forced a smile.
 
“Of course, you wanted me to see your bedroom.”

“That's not why you're here,” Portia said flatly.

There was something in Portia's tone,
an emptiness
, a level of detachment that made Gabrielle feel very uneasy.
 
“Portia really, what's the matter?
 
You're acting strangely.”

But Portia only tilted her head at the woman, as might a dog who hears a sound he doesn't quite understand.
 
“You really don't know, do you?”

“Know what, Portia?”

“Why you're here.
 
What's about to happen.”

Gabrielle blinked concernedly.
 
“What's about to happen?”

Portia gazed on silently for a moment.
 
She then slowly dropped her eyes to the stiletto, extended her hand, and, finger by finger, wrapped it around the hilt.
 
She peered back at Gabrielle and watched, patiently, like a snake waiting for the poison to set in.

Gabrielle did not understand. If Portia’s gesture was intended as a threat, then it wasn't a very good one.
 
The knife had impaled the vanity far too deeply to be removed.
 
Portia had to know that.
 
No, grabbing the hilt was not a threat, it was a form of communication; Portia’s way of saying I wish you were dead.
 
And Gabrielle was certain she knew why.
 
“You really haven't forgiven me, have you?”

Portia made no reply, but then she didn't need to.
 
That dark and vacant gaze told Gabrielle everything she needed to know.

Gabrielle bowed her head and slumped, great sorrow sapping her body of strength.
 
It had all been a grand deception, a ruse.
 
Portia had been pretending the entire time.
 
She hadn’t forgiven a single thing.
 
She only wanted to embarrass her, to humiliate her, to bring her here and—

Crack!
 
A sharp sound ruptured the air in the bedroom.
 
It was so sudden, so loud, that it made Gabrielle flinch violently.
 
Her eyes darted around the room, frantically searching for the source of the noise… and then found it.
 
The vanity had cracked severely, for miraculously Portia was easing the stiletto out of the wood.

Gabrielle looked on in disbelief as the blade whined and moaned, protesting its departure. Several popping sounds and another loud crack followed as Portia twisted the stiletto, finally wrenching it free.
 
She then leaned forward and stood, bringing the knife shoulder high.
 
Its long silvery blade glistened in the room’s warm lamplight.

Gabrielle felt faint.
 
What she’d witnessed simply wasn’t possible.
 
She needed a moment to think,
 
to
breathe, but Portia had already begun toward her, moving carefully, methodically.
 
And then the poison did set in.
 
Gabrielle realized that Portia was going to kill her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, panicked.
 
“Stop!”

But Portia only kept coming, her face now distorted by a demonic grin.

Jack was trying to yell, trying to move, trying to do anything to get Gabrielle’s attention and force her to run.
 
But he could only look on in horror as Gabrielle’s hands covered her mouth, the nature of the moment seemingly too grand for her to think rationally.

Then, as if carried along not by her own will, but by her body’s sudden sense of its own mortality, Gabrielle finally did move, darting to her right and out of view.
 
In an eerie, virtually simultaneous motion, Portia moved along with her, her feet thudding on the floor as she sought to cut Gabrielle off.

Rustling noises
followed,
what Jack perceived as the sound of a struggle.
 
There was a heavy thud, then an impact that was hard enough to vibrate Jack's view of the bedroom.
 
Everything then went quiet.

Jack watched the bedroom fretfully, peering into the vanity mirror, trying to catch even the smallest glimpse of what might be taking place.
 
He saw nothing.
 
He listened, and waited.

He was then met with a sight so horrifying that it felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest.
 
Gabrielle had staggered back into view, a blood-drenched hand pressed to her rib cage.
 
Her legs gave way once, twice, and then she began stumbling toward the vanity.
 
Extending a hand, she smashed the vanity mirror, leaving it a mess of jagged shards.
 
She then fell backward onto the floor.

Jack watched terrified as she tried to struggle to her feet.
 
She managed to crawl a short distance on all fours, moving blindly in his direction, but her legs soon gave way.
 
She then began to drag herself along miserably, a lengthening trail of blood smearing the hardwood behind her.
 
Losing strength, she finally came to a stop just beyond the closet door.
 
She lay there on her stomach, gazing ahead, panting feverishly.

Portia then emerged from the right, a tall thin half-silhouette that eclipsed some of the light falling into the closet.
 
She towered over Gabrielle like a vulture over a carcass.
 
The stiletto, still fisted in her hand, glistened with blood.

Portia kneeled, taking hold of Gabrielle's shoulder and rolling her onto her back.
 
She then stepped over and dropped to her knees, straddling the woman’s body.
 
She brought the point of the stiletto to Gabrielle's chin, creating a shadowy dimple there.
 
Gabrielle turned her head to the side, trying to lean away, but the tip of the blade followed.
 
Portia used the opportunity to brush away the hair covering Gabrielle’s ear, then leaned down and spoke into it.

"I know you don't understand what’s happening.
 
I know you’re confused.”
 
With the tip of the stiletto, she forced Gabrielle's face back to her own, bringing their lips just inches apart.
 
“I know you want to beg for your life.
 
Don’t.
 
It won’t save you.”

“Why?” Gabrielle cried.
 
“Why are you doing this to me?”