Free Night Visions by Thomas Fahy

makes her face burn. She wants answers. For Phebe. For herself.
    The hall cuts around another corner and stops abruptly. There is one closed door to her right, and there everything glows inexplicably red. The walls, the carpet, even Officer Kincaid’s face appears sunburn-pink. He hasn’t noticed her yet. His head is slightly bowed toward the door as if waiting for someone to answer. He stands before a welcome mat that shows a cheerful frog saying “Hop on in!” Two wrapped newspapers are stacked in the corner.
    â€œHi.”
    He turns, startled. His smile seems strained, almost embarrassed, and Samantha realizes that he has been eavesdropping. He starts to explain that Detective Snair won’t let him inside, but she interrupts.
    â€œWhy is that bulb red?” She looks toward the light fixture across from the door. A naked bulb juts out like the tongue of a bell.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œCan you ask the landlord?”
    â€œWell, I’m really not supposed to leave. I’m kind of on guard.”
    â€œI see.” She stares until she obviously makes him uncomfortable.
    â€œWell, I guess I could run downstairs real quick.”
    â€œThanks.”
    He relaxes at the sight of her smile and goes.
    She knocks, and the door opens quickly. Frank nods as she enters. The light in the room is filtered through a white plastic tent that has been set up around the window to protect forensic evidence, or so Samantha assumes. Neatly arranged music scores fill most of the bookshelves, but one is lined with porcelain frogs of all sizes and colors. Everything else in the apartment seems to lack order and organization. A single frog has been knocked to the floor, leaving several broken pieces and a smattering of white powder. Dozens of novels, magazines, and notebooks are stacked in haphazard piles on the floor. A framed poster leans against the left-hand wall, waiting to be hung, and well-used cat toys litter the floor. On a rolltop desk adjacent to the window, stacks of CDs and several candles surround a small stereo. One fat red candle has hollowed itself out around the wick and bled over much of the desktop. Another has fallen to the wood floor, spilling long lines of wax away from the desk like rays of sunlight. In the opposite corner, a cello case lies next to a chair and music stand.
    A marble-faced man in a wrinkled linen jacket is taking pictures. A bright flash fills the room, then fades. Two uniformed officers look through desk drawers and a file cabinet.
    Samantha turns toward the tent and feels Frank’s hand on her right forearm. He looks drawn and somewhat sad.
    â€œI don’t know if you want to see this.”
    She looks at him briefly without speaking, then moves to the tent flap and steps inside. It’s the windowsill from her vision. Dried blood spilling like a waterfall over the ledge and down the wall, forming a coagulated puddle on the floor. Most of the broken glass is scattered on the landing of the fire escape, where Phebe’s body is suspended upside down, taut, from rope. Her feet have been tied to the landing above, and her arms are fastened to the railing on either side of her. Her blouse has slid down to her neck, exposing her white skin, black bra, and the circle carved into her chest and upper stomach.
    Samantha covers her stomach with one hand and looks down at the grate beneath her feet. The circle takes her back to that night in the library over two years ago. Right before it happened, there was his smell—so out of place among the books and recycled air—and the muscles of his hairless arm wrapping around her neck. He pressed her against the cold floor and carved a half-circle into her body with a knife. She inhales rapidly, as if she can’t get enough air, and wonders: Did the same man—? Was this meant for me? How? She tries to control her breathing and lets her hand fall to her side.
    Samantha looks at Phebe again. Her face,