When we hear the first shots, we are standing in the living room of Fallingwater, the Frank-Lloyd-Wright-designed home in Pennsylvania, listening to our guide’s description of the furniture. My husband and I wonder aloud about who would set off fireworks in the middle of the day. And it’s not even a holiday! A man in the tour group sets us straight—those are gunshots, you idiots—but still, we imagine they originate from a far-off hunter, the valley and trees and house making them sound closer than they are. Our instincts—always substandard or maybe atrophied from disuse—do not detect danger, so at first, we feel no fear. When we do, it comes on like a contagious yawn stemming from the other tourists.
“Is there a basement here?” One of the men in our tour group asks, his deep voice smooth and unhurried, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. He directs the question to our tour guide, James, whose face clearly reflects his own terror.
“Yes, the family insisted on a basement, even though Mr. Wright hated…”
“Take us there.”
James’s mouth flops open and closed like he’s not sure what to do if he can’t impart facts about the famous architect. The man in the leather jacket takes his hands out of his pockets and places them on James’s shoulders, looks into his eyes, and speaks firmly, “Son, I know you’re scared, but I need you to focus. Take us to the basement. Now.” James nods mutely and directs us to the open-tread stairs that lead to the Frank Lloyd Wright reviled basement. Just as the first of our tour group begins to descend the steps, we hear shouts and footfalls coming from another part of the house. Someone says, too loud, and there is a moment of suspension before people begin pushing to get down the stairs. The man in the
