А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“Does Alistair mind you wearing them?”

She thinks about it, then laughs. “I doubt Alistair knows.” She spurs the wheel of her lighter with her thumb, kisses it to a cigarette.

“Knows you’re wearing them or knows who they’re from?”

Jane inhales, arrows smoke to one side. “Either. Both. He can be difficult.” She taps her cigarette against the bowl. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s a good man, and a good father. But he’s controlling.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dr. Fox, are you analyzing me?” she asks. Her voice is light, but her eyes are cool.

“If anything, I’m analyzing your husband.”

She inhales again, frowns. “He’s always been like that. Not very trusting. At least not with me.”

“And why’s that ?”

“Oh, I was a wild child,” she says. “ Dis-so-lute . That’s the word. That’s his—that’s Alistair’s word, anyway. Bad crowds, bad choices.”

“Until you met Alistair?”

“Even then. It took me a little while to clean myself up.” It couldn’t have taken that long, I think—by the looks of her, she would’ve been early twenties when she became a mother.

Now she shakes her head. “I was with someone else for a time.”

“Who was that?”

A grimace. “ Was is right. Not worth mentioning. We’ve all made mistakes.”

I say nothing.

“That ended, anyhow. But my family life is still”—her fingers strum the air—“challenging. That’s the word.”

“ Le mot juste .”

“Those French lessons are totally paying off.” She grits her teeth in a grin, cocking the cigarette upward.

I press her. “What makes your family life challenging?”

She exhales. A perfect wreath of smoke wobbles through the air.

“Do it again,” I say, in spite of myself. She does. I’m drunk, I realize.

“You know”—clearing her throat—“it isn’t just one thing. It’s complicated. Alistair is challenging. Families are challenging.”

“But Ethan is a good kid. And I say this as someone who knows a good kid when she sees one,” I add.

She looks me in the eye. “I’m glad you think so. I do, too.” She bats her cigarette on the lip of the bowl again. “You must miss your family.”

“Yes. Terribly. But I talk to them every day.”

She nods. Her eyes are swimming a bit; she must be drunk, too. “It’s not the same as them being here, though, is it?”

“No. Of course not.”

She nods a second time. “So. Anna. You’ll notice I’m not asking what made you this way.”

“Overweight?” I say. “Prematurely gray?” I really am soused.

She sips her wine. “Agoraphobic.”

“Well . . .” If we’re trading confidences, then I suppose: “Trauma. Same as anyone.” I fidget. “It got me depressed. Severely depressed. It isn’t something I like to remember.”

But she’s shaking her head. “No, no, I understand—it’s not my business. And I’m guessing you can’t invite people over for a party. I just think we need to find you some more hobbies. Besides chess and your black-and-white movies.”

“And espionage.”

“And espionage.”

I think about it. “I used to take photographs.”

“Looks as though you still do.”

That deserves a smirk. “Fair enough. But I mean outdoor photography. I enjoyed it.”

“Sort of Humans of New York stuff?”

“More like nature photography.”

“In New York City?”

“In New England. We used to go there sometimes.”

Jane turns to the window. “Look at that,” she says, pointing west, and I do: a pulpy sunset, the dregs of dusk, buildings paper-cut against the glow. A bird circles nearby. “That’s nature, isn’t it?”

“Technically. Some of it. But I mean—”

“The world is a beautiful place,” she insists, and she’s serious; her gaze is even, her voice level. Her eyes catch mine, hold them. “Don’t forget that.” She reclines, mashing her cigarette into the hollow of the bowl. “And don’t miss it.”

I fish my phone from my pocket, aim it at the glass, snap a shot. I look at Jane.

“Attagirl,” she growls.

19

I pour her into the front hall a little past six. “I’ve got very important things to do,” she informs me.

“So do I,” I reply.

Two and a half hours. When did I last speak to someone, anyone, for two and a half hours? I cast my mind back, like a fishing line, across months, across seasons. Nothing. No one. Not since my first meeting with Dr. Fielding, long ago in midwinter—and even then I could only talk for so long; my windpipe was still damaged.

I feel young again, almost giddy. Maybe it’s the wine, but I suspect not. Dear diary, today I made a friend.

Later that evening, I’m drowsing through Rebecca when the buzzer rings.

I shed my blanket, straggle to the door. “Why don’t you go?” Judith Anderson sneers behind me. “Why don’t you leave Manderley?”

I check the intercom monitor. A tall man, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with a bold widow’s peak. It takes me a moment—I’m used to seeing him in living color—but then I recognize Alistair Russell.

“Now what might you be after?” I say, or think. I think I say it. Definitely still drunk. I shouldn’t have popped those pills before, either.

I press the buzzer. The latch clacks; the door groans; I wait for it to shut.

When I open the hall door, he’s standing there, pale and luminous in the dark. Smiling. Strong teeth bolting from strong gums. Clear eyes, crow’s feet raking the edges.

“Alistair Russell,” he says. “We live in two-oh-seven, across the park.”

“Come in.” I extend a hand. “I’m Anna Fox.”

He waves away my hand, stays put.

“I really don’t want to intrude—and I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of something. Movie night?”

I nod.

He smiles again, bright as a Christmas storefront. “I just wanted to know if you’d had any visitors this evening?”

I frown. Before I can answer, an explosion booms behind me—the shipwreck scene. “Ship ashore!” the coastliners wail. “Everybody down to the bay!” Much hubbub.

I return to the sofa, pause the film. When I face him again, Alistair has taken a step into the room. Bathed in white light, shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, he looks like a cadaver. Behind him the door yawns in the wall, a dark mouth.

“Would you mind closing that?” He does so. “Thanks,” I say, and the word slides off my tongue: I’m slurring.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, thanks, I’m all right.”

“I meant water,” I clarify.

He shakes his head politely. “Have you had any visitors tonight?” he repeats.

Well, Jane warned me. He doesn’t look like the controlling type, all beady eyes and thin lips; he’s more a jovial lion-in-autumn sort, with his peppery beard, his hairline in rapid retreat. I imagine him and Ed getting on, laddishly, hail-fellow-well-mettishly, slinging back whiskey and swapping war stories. But appearances, et cetera.

It’s none of his business, of course. Still, I don’t want to look defensive. “I’ve been alone all night,” I tell him. “I’m in the middle of a movie marathon.”

“What’s that?”

“ Rebecca . One of my favorites. Are you—”

Then I see that he’s looking past me, dark brow furrowed. I turn.

The chess set.

I’ve filed the glasses neatly in the dishwasher, scrubbed the bowl in the sink, but the chessboard is still there, littered with the living and the dead, Jane’s fallen king rolled to one side.