А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“I promise you,” Alistair begins, “she is—”

“You don’t need to promise anything, Mr. Russell,” Norelli tells him.

“Does it make a difference if I promise?” asks the woman.

I round on her, step forward. “Who are you?” I sound raw, jagged, and I’m pleased to see her and Alistair scuttle back together, as though they’re cuffed at the ankle.

“Dr. Fox,” Little says, “let’s calm down.” He places a hand on my arm.

It jolts me. I spin away from him, away from Norelli, and now I’m in the center of the kitchen, the detectives looming by the window, Alistair and the woman backed into the living room.

I turn to them, advance. “I have met Jane Russell twice,” I say slowly, simply. “You are not Jane Russell.”

This time she stands her ground. “I can show you my driver’s license,” she offers, dipping a hand into her pocket.

I shake my head, simply, slowly. “I don’t want to see your driver’s license.”

“Ma’am,” calls Norelli, and I twist my head over my shoulder. She approaches, steps between us. “That’s enough.”

Alistair is watching me with wide eyes. The woman’s hand is still burrowed in her pocket. Behind them, Ethan has retreated to the chaise, Punch coiled at his feet.

“Ethan,” I say, and his gaze glides up to me, like he was waiting to be summoned. “Ethan.” I push between Alistair and the woman. “What’s happening?”

He looks at me. Looks away.

“She is not your mother.” I touch his shoulder. “Tell them that.”

He cocks his head, swerves his eyes left. Clenches his jaw and swallows. Picks at a fingernail. “You’ve never met my mother,” he mumbles.

I remove my hand.

Turn around, slowly, dazed.

Then they speak at once, a little chorus: “Can we—” asks Alistair, nodding toward the hall door just as Norelli says, “We’re finished here,” and Little invites me to “get some rest.”

I blink at them.

“Can we—” Alistair tries again.

“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” says Norelli. “And Mrs. Russell.”

He and the woman eye me warily, as though I’m an animal that’s just been tranquilized, then walk to the door.

“Come on,” says Alistair, sharply. Ethan rises, his eyes fixed on the floor, and steps over the cat.

As they file out the door, Norelli lines up after them. “Dr. Fox, it’s a criminal offense to make false police reports,” she informs me. “Do you understand?”

I stare at her. I think I bob my head.

“Good.” She tugs at her collar. “That’s all I’ve got.”

The door closes behind her. I hear the outer door unlatch.

It’s just me and Little. I look at his wingtips, black and spade-sharp, and remember (how? why?) that I’ve missed my French lesson with Yves today.

Just me and Little. Les deux.

The crack of the front door as it shuts.

“Am I okay to leave you alone?” he asks.

I nod, vacant.

“Is there someone you can talk to?”

I nod again.

“Here,” he says, thumbing a card from his breast pocket, pressing it into my hand. I examine it. Flimsy stock. detective conrad little, nypd. Two phone numbers. An email address.

“You need anything, you can call me. Hey.” I look up. “You can call me. Okay?”

I nod.

“Okay?”

The word barrels down my tongue, elbows other words aside. “Okay.”

“Good. Day or night.” He slings his phone from one hand to the other. “I got those kids. I don’t sleep.” To the first hand again. He catches me watching, goes still.

We look at each other.

“Be well, Dr. Fox.” Little moves to the hall door, opens it, gently draws it closed behind him.

Again the front door clacks open. Again it slams shut.

42

Sudden, intense quiet. The world has braked to a halt.

I’m alone, for the first time all day.

I survey the room. The wine bottles, radiant in the slanting sun. The chair angled beside the kitchen table. The cat, patrolling the sofa.

Flecks of dust amble through the light.

I drift to the hall door, lock it.

Turn to face the room again.

Did that just happen?

What just happened?

I wander to the kitchen, excavate a bottle of wine. Plunge the screw in, wedge the cork out. Glug the stuff into a glass. Bring it to my lips.

I think of Jane.

I drain the glass, then press the bottle to my mouth, tilt it hard. Drink, long and deep.

I think of that woman.

Weave my way to the living room now, gaining speed; rattle two pills into my palm. They dance down my throat.

I think of Alistair. And this is my wife.

Stand there, swigging, gulping, until I choke.

And when I set the bottle down again, I think of Ethan, and how he looked away from me, how he turned his head. How he swallowed before answering me. How he scratched at his fingernail. How he muttered.

How he lied.

Because he did lie. The averted gaze, the leftward glance, the delayed response, the fidgeting—all the tells of a liar. I knew it before he opened his mouth.

The clenched jaw, though: That’s a sign of something else.

That’s a sign of fear.

43

The phone is on the floor in the study, just where I dropped it. I tap at the screen as I return the pill bottles to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. Dr. Fielding, I’m well aware, is the one equipped with an MD and a prescription pad, but he won’t be able to help me here.

“Can you come over?” I say as soon as she picks up.

A pause. “What?” She sounds bewildered.

“Can you come over?” I cross to my bed, climb in.

“Right now? I’m not—”

“Please, Bina?”

Another pause. “I can make it to you by . . . nine, nine thirty. I have dinner plans,” she adds.

I don’t care. “Fine.” I lie back, the pillow foaming in my ear. Beyond the window branches stir, shedding leaves like embers; they spark against the glass, fly away.

“Iz evitingaite?”

“What?” The temazepam is clogging my brain. I can feel the circuits shorting.

“Is everything all right, I said?”

“No. Yes. I’ll explain when you’re here.” My eyelids droop, drop.

“Okay. Seeyoutonight.”

But I’m already disintegrating into sleep.

It’s dark and dreamless, a little oblivion, and when the buzzer brays downstairs, I awake exhausted.

44

Bina stares at me, her mouth unhinged.

Finally she closes it, slowly but firmly, like a flytrap. Says nothing.

We’re in Ed’s library, me balled into the wingback, Bina draped along the club chair, the one where Dr. Fielding parks. Her drainpipe legs are folded beneath the seat, and Punch churns around her ankles like smoke.

In the grate, a low tide of fire.

Now she shifts her gaze, watches the little wave of flames.

“How much did you have to drink?” she asks, wincing, as though I might strike her.

“Not enough to hallucinate .”

She nods. “Okay. And the pills . . .”

I grip the blanket on my lap, wring it. “I met Jane. Two times. Different days.”

“Right.”

“I saw her with her family in their house. Repeatedly.”

“Right.”

“I saw Jane bleeding. With a knife in her chest.”

“It was definitely a knife?”

“Well, it wasn’t a fucking brooch .”

“I’m just— Okay, right.”

“I saw it through my camera. Very clearly.”

“But you didn’t take a photo.”

“No, I didn’t take a photo. I was trying to help her, not . . . document it.”

“Okay.” She idly strokes a strand of hair. “And now they’re saying that no one was stabbed.”

“ And they’re trying to say that Jane is someone else. Or someone else is Jane.”