Claire’s grip tightened around the handle of the raised hammer. She glanced around the small spare room. Cardboard boxes and heaps of clothes stood in towering stacks around her. A sagging second-hand futon was pushed against one wall adjacent to a humming radiator.
Kneeling on the floor, Claire’s knees pressed into the hardwood through threadbare jeans. Her feet tingled from lack of blood flow and she shifted her weight, wiggling her toes until the feeling returned.
She inhaled deeply, held the breath in her lungs until it burned, and exhaled loudly.
Despite the November chill wafting through the single pane window, sweat darkened the armpits of her T-shirt. Claire told herself the radiator was pumping in too much heat, but that was a lie and she knew it.
Hammer still paused overhead, her other hand came up, touching her head. Tamara had sheered her shoulder-length blonde hair off three nights ago. Rigid, like a wooden doll propped up in a kitchen chair, Claire had remained silent throughout the process, the only sound in the apartment the constant snip, snip, snip of scissors.
Her hair, like coils of spun gold, had fallen in a fanned out semi-circle. After, Tamara had given her a paper towel to wipe her tears and then swept up the discarded hair.
A ten-dollar box of dark brown hair dye finished the transformation. And in a few more days, the bruises on her throat, like an ugly necklace of purple blossoms, might fade enough to cover with makeup.
Claire brought the hammer down in one arching motion.
The mirror shattered under the blow with a satisfying crack. Shiny fragments split apart in a spiderweb pattern and bounced across the flattened cardboard box she’d set the mirror on.
Claire brought the hammer down a second time.
And a third.
Finally, she set the hammer aside and carefully collected the broken shards onto a large tray.
Behind her, two large sweeping shapes, cut from cement backer board, leaned against the wall. Luckily, none of Tamara’s neighbors had complained when Claire had fired up her jigsaw on the balcony.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed after that. Claire tended to lose track of hours when engrossed in her work.
Carefully, she arranged the jagged silver pieces, like fractured moonlight, on the cement boards, until they fit together and formed the desired pattern.
For this commission, interlocking feathers.
“You okay in here?”
Tamara stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in her hands, which she held out to Claire.
“Thank you.” She took the mug. “I’m fine, just working.”
“It’s beautiful,” her friend said. “Angel wings?”
Claire nodded.
“Yeah, I’m about halfway done.” She pointed at a bag of white cement in a plastic tub near the door. “I need to glue the pieces down, then mix and add the cement over it.”
“This might be your best work yet.”
“I think so, too. It’s for a repeat client,” Claire said, as her cell phone buzzed next to her foot. She yelped and clutched her chest. Beneath her fingers, her heart banged like a hammer.
Tamara peered at the number.
“I don’t recognize that area code. Do you?”
“N-no,” Claire stammered.
“Do you want me to answer it?”
“No,” Claire said, a little calmer. She hit accept.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” said a woman’s voice. “Is this Claire Price, proprietor of,” papers shuffled, “Seven Years Bad Luck?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Great,” the woman said. “My name is Elizabeth Vink. I represent Isaac Davis. I believe you’ve done work for him in the past?”
Claire glanced at the unfinished wings in front of her.
“That’s right. I am working on piece for him right now.”
“Well, I’m sorry to inform you, but Mr. Davis has passed away.”
“Oh no,” Claire said.
After a few beats, Elizabeth continued.
“Well, you must have meant a lot to him, because he named you the sole beneficiary to his entire estate, including his house in Vallecito Lake, Colorado.”
“Who is it?” Tamara mouthed.
Claire waved a hand.
“You must be confused. I’ve never actually met Mr. Davis or spoken to him. All of our interactions have been through my online store. I don’t understand why he would he leave me anything.”
The lawyer laughed.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Davis was a bit eccentric, what many would consider a recluse. After his wife Olivia drowned tragically in the lake nearly 30 years ago, he shut himself away in his house. I never met him in person myself and we only spoke on the phone a few times. Mr. Davis inherited a small fortune from his father when he passed. It’s a smaller fortune now, but still quite substantial.”
Claire sat in stunned silence.
“We can sign all of the necessary paperwork electronically, but I would like to meet you in person, if that’s possible.” Claire detected a note of curiosity in the lawyer’s voice. “What kind of artwork do you make?”
“Mirrors,” Claire said, her voice sounding rusty and far away. “I make artwork out of broken mirrors.”
Elizabeth laughed again, harder.
“I’m sorry, what’s so funny?”
The lawyer cleared her throat. “If you decide to travel here and see the house, you’ll understand.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tamara had asked, the question repeating over and over in Claire’s mind during the 28-hour drive across the country.
No, Claire thought, she wasn’t sure. But if Ryan found her at Tamara’s apartment, and something happened to Tamara, Claire would never forgive herself. Yeah, she had the restraining order, but that hadn’t stopped him the last time.
And with every mile she put between herself and Philadelphia, the anxiety dissipated, replaced by her own growing curiosity.
Maybe Mr. Davis was an angel, she mused, glancing in the rearview mirror. The wings were in the backseat of her Toyota, encased in bubble wrap.
Maybe he’d somehow learned about her circumstances and decided to leave everything to her, so she could start over somewhere new.
As her car followed the winding road up the mountain, the lake appeared between the trees to the right, sunlight glinting off its surface, smooth as glass below. Snow clung to the boughs of the pines and fell into slushy piles on the ground. Houses passed by less and less frequently, and she began to sense how isolated her final destination was.
“Almost there,” Claire whispered. Her heart hammered, more from excitement now than fear.
She turned into a narrow drive.
A beautiful stone house rose up in front of her, with a steep peaked roof and wraparound porch overlooking the lake. A woman in a bright red winter jacket, skirt, and heels stood next to a sleek black SUV. She waved when Claire parked and exited her car.
“I’m Elizabeth. It’s nice to finally meet you,” the woman said, extending gloved fingers. Claire shook the lawyer’s hand, noticing the lipstick she wore, the same shade as her coat, smeared on her teeth.
“Likewise,” Claire said, shivering.
“Here, let’s get you inside,” Elizabeth said, fishing a ring of keys from her coat. She unlocked the heavy front door.
“Thanks.” Claire followed her into the house.
Cold light streamed through the windows, and at first, Claire thought the house looked much larger inside than it had from the outside. It took her a moment to get her bearings, as she realized two walls of the living room were covered, floor to ceiling, with hanging mirrors.
Her mouth dropped open in disbelief.
Elizabeth chuckled softly. “It’s like this in every room. At least one wall covered entirely by mirrors.”
“Do you know why?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, I don’t. Mr. Davis lived alone and rarely spoke to or saw anyone, apart from the housekeeper he allowed in once a month to do the cleaning. She’s the one who…found him.” Elizabeth trailed off.
“Oh? You never mentioned on the phone, but how did he die?”
The lawyer frowned.
“As I stated before, Mr. Davis was a bit eccentric, as well as a recluse. He left a note, and it appears that…oh, dear.” She patted Claire’s arm. “It was an apparent suicide.”
“Here?” Claire gasped.
“In his bedroom, yes. I’d rather not discuss the details,” she grimaced visibly. “But you may certainly request a copy of the police report if you’d like to know more.”
A fluttering motion, in the mirrors near the top corner of the window-facing wall, caught Claire’s eye. She turned but saw nothing. A chill, thin as a fingernail, traced the nape of her neck.
It must have been a bird outside, she told herself. The lawyer appeared not to have noticed.
“No. That’s okay,” Claire said.
“Good, good.” Elizabeth motioned her toward the dining room, pulling a stack of papers from her leather tote. “There are four other fully furnished bedrooms you may use if you prefer to avoid the master suite.”
She sat at a long table made of dark, shiny wood. Claire took a seat across from her, and the lawyer handed her a pen.
“I hope your signing hand is ready,” she said, winking.
Behind Elizabeth was another wall of hanging mirrors, in varying shapes and sizes, reflecting over and over the back of her blonde hair, teased high in an 80’s reminiscent style, as well as Claire’s repeating mirror image, pale face framed by the short pixie cut, staring back at her from across the table.
Dark smudges shadowed her eyes. Claire blinked, and the mirror Claires blinked back. Again, from high in the corner of the room, she noticed a fluttering movement. Soft, like a dove taking flight.
She inclined her head upward. The mirror Claires mimicked her.
“Oh, and this is for you, too.”
Elizabeth slid a sealed envelope, addressed to her, across the table. She looked down, recognizing Mr. Davis’s penmanship. After each commission, he’d sent her a handwritten thank you card, which she’d pinned to a corkboard in the apartment she’d once shared with Ryan.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“He left that for you, too. Do you want to read it now?” Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows expectantly.
“Later,” Claire replied. She slipped the envelope into her pocket. “Let’s deal with the paperwork.”
That evening, after the lawyer left, Claire hauled in clothes and art supplies from the car. Her stomach rumbled as she set down the last box. There was a stocked pantry, but she felt strange eating a dead man’s food. Instead, Claire grabbed a granola bar from her suitcase and climbed the elegant curve of stairs to the second floor.
A portrait hung on the wall at the top of the stairs.
Claire paused. She assumed the man was a young Mr. Davis. Curly red hair and long beard, thin build, with his arm around a woman, most likely his wife Olivia. She wore a high collared shirt and emerald skirt, hair twisted back from her heart shaped face.
Outside, the sun had already set, but the sky was still ablaze with volcanic hues. Wind moved through the trees, causing branches to scratch at the windows and cast shifting orange shadows over the many mirrors.
A shape rippled on the surface of one of the mirrors, like a stone dropped into a lake.
Claire turned quickly away.
At the end of the hallway, the door of the master suite was closed.
She hesitated, and then stepped into the closest bedroom. The room was dainty and feminine, with cream colored wallpaper and lace curtains. A neatly made four poster bed was positioned against one wall, opposite a dresser surrounded by more hanging mirrors.
Her body ached, exhausted from the drive. Kicking off her sneakers, Claire crawled into the bed.
She’d nearly drifted off to sleep when she remembered the letter. Claire pulled the folded paper out of her pants and tore open the envelope.
In the dying light, she read, growing ever more confused.
Dear Ms. Price,
Please have the strength to do what I could not.
Set her free.
Sincerely,
I.D.
A knocking woke her. Gentle at first. Claire assumed it was an echo from a dream. Then the sound grew louder, more persistent. She sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.
Inside the largest mirror above the dresser was a woman, the same woman, Claire realized with mounting dread, from the portrait in the hall. The woman’s eyes were wide with alarm, mouth forming words Claire couldn’t hear.
She pounded on the mirror, impossibly, from the other side of the glass.
Without thinking, Claire jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs, flicking on every light switch she could find along the way. The main living area flooded with brightness and Claire saw one of the windows had been broken, glass littering the floor.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the familiar terror rising in her stomach.
The mirror surfaces undulated like tiny waves lapping at the shore of the lake. Every cell in Claire’s body screamed for her to run, but she was frozen in place.
Ryan stood in front of the door, blocking the closest exit.
His clothes were rumpled and dirty. Blood trickled down one arm to his wrist and hand, which was wrapped around a large tree branch.
“Didn’t think I would find you, did you?” he said calmly. “Stupid bitch.”
Panic caused Claire’s throat to constrict, making it hard to breathe. Ryan took a step toward her, eyes wild.
“You belong to me,” he said, voice rising. “And if I can’t have you, no one will.”
Claire screamed as he lunged toward her, brandishing the tree branch. She pivoted, the branch only scraping her shoulder as he flew past. Losing her balance, Claire fell, landing on the ground next to the boxes she’d brought in earlier.
Ryan roared in anger, the sound more animal than human. She rolled behind the boxes. Above her, the mirrors rippled, and she saw Olivia. The woman pointed at a box, and Claire saw her hammer sticking out of the top.
She wrapped her fingers around the wooden handle and raised it above her head. When Ryan leaped at her again, expecting her to be cowering in fear behind the boxes, she caught him off guard and brought the hammer down on his skull.
Claire brought the hammer down a second time.
And a third.
When Ryan was no longer moving, she turned to the wall of mirrors, bloody hammer still clutched in her hand, and finally understand Mr. Davis’s dying wish.
Claire approached the wall of mirrors and began to smash them, one by one.
