she drops the laundry and slowly pulls a tattered, old juilliard t-shirt with a very seventies logo from the drawer. claire gazes around the room, which is a reliquary of caitlin's recently concluded childhood; pictures, trophies,
in the split second of brilliance, she sees mr. feur, in shirtsleeves, drenched, dragging a large duffel toward the open trunk of his car.
the immense mr. feur filling the doorway.
a figure in the turreted window of norman's study.
the piece of glass, wedged next to what looks like a copper coin in the crack. it's too big to be a penny.
a shaggy trio of musicians on the stage, pumping through a jangly, but surprisingly melodic song. her eyes race across the faces of a butch female drummer, an emaciated guitarist. singer and stop on the bass player. caitlin. she rocks back and forth to her own hypnotic bass line, eyes closed, swaying to the music.
the bathtub, with the shower curtain drawn around it, the water blasting. norman's limp hand pokes through the curtain. an electric cord leads from the mirror socket into the tub.
the necklace still in her hand.
the redial button.
ceiling, shapes.
a stern section of the boat's covering tarp untied, flapping in the breeze.
a new york apartment, the glimmering skyline visible through a large window. cooper gazes up attentively.