А Финн - The Woman in the Window

He digs his phone from his pocket, brings it close to his eyes. I wonder if he’s nearsighted. Then he swipes it, drops his hand to his side.

“This whole house is just you, huh?” He walks toward the kitchen. “And your tenant,” he adds before I can do so. “That go downstairs?” He jabs a thumb toward the basement door.

“Yes. What about my neighbor?”

He checks his phone again—then stops, stoops. When he stands up, unfolding his hundred-yard body, he’s got the cat’s water bowl in his right hand and, in the left, the landline phone. He looks at one, then the other, as though weighing them. “Guy’s probably thirsty,” he says, stepping over to the sink.

I watch his reflection in the television screen, hear the gush of the faucet. There’s a shallow puddle of merlot left in one of the bottles. I wonder if I could knock it back without him seeing.

The water bowl rings against the floor, and now Little sets the phone in its dock, squints at the readout. “Battery’s dead,” he says.

“I know.”

“Just saying.” He approaches the basement door. “Can I bang on this?” he asks me. I nod.

He plays his knuckles against the wood—shave-and-a-haircut—and waits. “What’s your tenant’s name?”

“David.”

Little knocks again. Nothing.

He turns to me. “So where’s your phone, Dr. Fox?”

I blink. “My phone?”

“Your cell phone.” He waves his own at me. “You got one?”

I nod.

“Well, they didn’t find it on you. Most people would go straight for their phone if they’d been away all night.”

“I don’t know.” Where is it? “I don’t use it much.”

He says nothing.

I’ve had enough. I brace my feet against the carpet, haul myself upright. The room wobbles around me, a spinning plate; but after a moment it steadies, and I lock eyes with Little.

Punch congratulates me with a tiny meow.

“You all right?” Little asks, stepping toward me. “You good?”

“Yes.” My robe has flapped open; I gather it to my body, knot the sash tight. “What is happening with my neighbor?” But he’s stopped short, his eyes on his phone.

I repeat myself: “What—”

“Okay,” he says, “okay. They’re on their way over.” And now suddenly he’s surging through the kitchen like a great wave, his gaze revolving around the room. “Is that the window you saw your neighbor from?” He points.

“Yes.”

He strides to the sink, one long lunge of his long legs, props his palms on the counter, peers outside. I study his back, filling the window. Then I look at the coffee table, start to clear it up.

He turns. “Leave all that there,” he says. “Leave the TV on, too. What movie is that?”

“An old thriller.”

“You like thrillers?”

I fidget. The lorazepam must be running dry. “Sure. Why can’t I clean up?”

“Because we’ll want to see exactly what was going on with you when you witnessed the attack on your neighbor.”

“Doesn’t it matter more what was going on with her ?”

Little ignores me. “Maybe put that cat somewhere,” he tells me. “Seems like he’s got an attitude. Don’t want him scratching anybody.” He pivots back to the sink, fills a glass with water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated. You’ve had a shock.” He crosses the room, puts it in my hand. There’s something almost tender about it. I half expect him to caress my cheek.

I bring the glass to my lips.

The buzzer rings.

40

“I’ve got Mr. Russell with me,” Detective Norelli announces, unnecessarily.

Her voice is slight, girlish, a bad fit for the high-rise sweater, the bitch-on-wheels leather coat. She sweeps the room with a single glance, then trains a glass-cutting gaze on me. Doesn’t introduce herself. She is Bad Cop, no doubt about it, and with disappointment I realize that Little’s aw-shucks shtick must be just smoke.

Alistair trails her, fresh and crisp in khakis and sweater, although there’s a ridge of flesh drawn bowstring-taut at his throat. Maybe it’s always there. He looks at me, smiles. “Hi,” he says, with faint surprise.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I sway. I’m uneasy. My system is still sluggish, like an engine clotted with sugar; and now my neighbor has just back-footed me with a grin.

“You okay?” Little closes the hall door behind Alistair, moves to my side.

I swirl my head. Yes. No.

He hooks a finger beneath my elbow. “Let’s get you—”

“Ma’am, are you all right?” Norelli’s frowning.

Little raises a hand. “She’s good—she’s good. She’s under sedation.”

My cheeks simmer.

He guides me toward the kitchen alcove, sits me down at the table—the same table where Jane blew through an entire matchbox, where we played sloppy chess and talked about our kids, where she told me to photograph the sunset. The same table where she spoke of Alistair and her past.

Norelli moves to the kitchen window, phone in hand. “Ms. Fox,” she says.

Little interrupts her: “Dr. Fox.”

She glitches, then reboots. “Dr. Fox, I understand from Detective Little that you saw something last night.”

I flick a glance at Alistair, still wallflowered by the hall door.

“I saw my neighbor get stabbed.”

“Who’s your neighbor?” Norelli asks.

“Jane Russell.”

“And you saw this through the window?”

“Yes.”

“Which window?”

I point past her. “That one.”

Norelli follows my finger. She’s got moonless eyes, flat and dark; I watch them scope the Russell house, left to right, as though she’s reading lines of text.

“Did you see who stabbed your neighbor?” Still looking outside.

“No, but I saw her bleeding, and I saw something in her chest.”

“What was in her chest?”

I shift in the chair. “Something silver.” What does it matter?

“Something silver?”

I nod.

Norelli nods, too; turns, looks at me, then past me, into the living room. “Who was with you last night?”

“No one.”

“So that whole setup on the table is yours?”

I shift again. “Yes.”

“Okay, Dr. Fox.” But she’s watching Little. “I’m going to—”

“His wife—” I begin, raising a hand, as Alistair moves toward us.

“Wait a moment.” Norelli steps forward, places her phone on the table in front me. “I’m going to play for you the 911 call you placed at ten thirty-three last night.”

“His wife —”

“I think it answers a lot of questions.” She slashes the screen with one long finger, and a voice blasts my ears, speakerphone-tinny: “911, what is—”

Norelli starts, thumbs the volume control, dials it down.

“—your emergency?”

“My neighbor.” Shrill. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.” It’s me, I know—my words, anyway—but not my voice; I sound slurred, melted.

“Ma’am, slow down.” That drawl. Maddening even now. “What’s your address?”

I look at Alistair, at Little. They’re watching Norelli’s phone.

Norelli is watching me.

“And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

“ Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.” I wince. Almost unintelligible.

“What?”

“I said help .” A cough, wet, spluttery. Near tears.

“Help is on the way, ma’am. I need you to calm down. Could you give me your name?”

“Anna Fox.”

“All right, Anna. What’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Jane Russell. Oh, God.” A croak.

“Are you with her now?”

“No. She’s across—she’s in the house across the park from me.”

I feel Alistair’s gaze on me. I return it, level.