А Финн - The Woman in the Window

I shake my head. Ethan shrugs. “Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.”

“Okay.” Nick raises a hand, twitches it in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Fox.”

As he walks away, a shiver of rain falls on us, wetting our heads, splattering against my umbrella. “Let’s go inside,” Ethan says.

63

The fire is still spurting in the grate, as though freshly laid. I’ve left it burning all this time. So irresponsible.

Still, the house feels warm, even with November gusting through the door. Once we’re in the living room, Ethan slips the umbrella from my hand, collapses it, tucks it in the corner, while I sway toward the hearth, the flames waving at me, beckoning me. I slump to my knees.

For a moment, I hear the lapping of the fire. I hear myself breathe.

I feel his eyes on my back.

The grandfather clock gathers itself, tolls three times.

Then he moves to the kitchen. Fills a glass at the sink. Walks it back to me.

By now my breath is deep and even. He sets the glass on the floor beside me; it cracks gently on the stone.

“Why did you lie?” I say.

There’s a pause. I gaze into the flames and wait for him to respond.

Instead I hear him shift where he stands. I swivel toward him, still on my knees. He towers over me, rail-thin, face flushed in the firelight.

“About what?” he asks at last, looking at his feet.

Already I’m shaking my head. “You know what.”

Another pause. He shuts his eyes, his lashes fanning out over his cheeks. Suddenly he looks very young, even younger than before.

“Who is that woman?” I press him.

“My mother,” he says in a low voice.

“I met your mother.”

“No, you—you’re confused.” Now he’s shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s what . . .” He stops. “That’s what my dad says,” he finishes.

My dad. I spread my hands on the floor, push myself up until I’m standing. “That’s what everyone’s been telling me. Even my friends.” I swallow. “Even my husband. But I know what I saw.”

“My dad says you’re crazy.”

I say nothing.

He retreats a step. “I have to leave. I shouldn’t be here.”

I take a step forward. “Where is your mother?”

He says nothing, just looks at me, eyes wide. Use a light touch, Wesley always advised us, only I’m past that point.

“Is your mother dead?”

Nothing. I see the firelight reflected in his eyes. His pupils are tiny sparks.

Then he mouths something I can’t hear.

“What?” I lean in, hear him whisper a pair of words:

“I’m scared.”

And before I can reply, he bolts to the door, flings it open. It swings there as the front door groans, slams shut.

I’m left standing by the fireplace, heat at my back, the chill of the hall before me.

64

After pressing the door shut, I lift the glass of water from the floor and dump its contents down the sink. The merlot bottle chimes against the rim as I pour wine into it. Chimes again. My hands are trembling.

I drink deep, think deep. I feel exhausted, exhilarated. I ventured outside— walked outside—and survived. I wonder what Dr. Fielding will say. I wonder what I should tell him. Maybe nothing. I frown.

I know more now, too. The woman is panicking. Ethan is frightened. Jane is . . . well. I don’t know about Jane. But it’s more than I knew before. I feel as though I’ve captured a pawn. I’m the Thinking Machine.

I drink deeper still. I’m the Drinking Machine.

I drink until my nerves stop twitching—an hour, by the grandfather clock. I watch the minute hand sweep its face, imagine my veins filling with wine, bold and thick, cooling me, strengthening me. Then I float upstairs. I spy the cat on the landing; he notices me, slinks into the study. I follow him.

On the desk, my phone lights up. I don’t recognize the number. I set the glass down on the desk. After the third ring, I swipe the screen.

“Dr. Fox.” The voice is trench-deep. “Detective Little here. We met on Friday, if you remember.”

I pause, then sit at the desk. Push the glass out of reach. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good, good.” He sounds pleased; I imagine him stretching back in his seat, folding one arm behind his head. “How is the good doctor?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I was wondering if I’d hear from you before now.”

I say nothing.

“Got your number from Morningside and wanted to check in. You doing okay?”

I just told him I was. “Fine, thanks.”

“Good, good. Family okay?”

“Fine. All fine.”

“Good, good.” Where is this going?

Then his voice shifts gears. “Here’s the thing: We had a call from your neighbor a little while ago.”

Of course. Bitch. Well, she warned me. Reliable bitch. I extend my arm, grasp the glass of wine.

“She says that you followed her to a coffee place down the block.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. “Now, I’m assuming you didn’t choose today to go get yourself a flat white. I’m assuming you didn’t run into her there by coincidence.”

In spite of myself, I nearly grin.

“I know it’s been a tough time for you. You’ve had a bad week.” I find myself nodding. He’s very agreeable. Would make a good shrink. “But doing stuff like this isn’t going to help anybody, including you.”

He hasn’t said her name yet. Will he? “What you said on Friday really upset some people. Just between you and me, Mrs. Russell”—there it is—“seems pretty high-strung.”

I bet she’s high-strung, I think. She’s impersonating a dead woman.

“And I don’t think her kid was too happy about it, either.”

I open my mouth. “I spoke—”

“So I—” He stops. “What was that?”

I purse my lips. “Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He grunts. “I wanted to ask you to just take it easy for a while. Good to hear you’re getting outside.” Is that a joke? “How’s that cat? He still got an attitude?”

I don’t respond. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“And your tenant?”

I chew my lip. Downstairs, there’s that stepladder braced against the basement door; belowground, I saw a dead woman’s earring at David’s bedside.

“Detective.” I grip the phone. I need to hear it once more. “You really don’t believe me?”

A long silence, then he sighs, deep and rumbly. “I’m sorry, Dr. Fox. I think you believe what you say you saw. I just— I don’t.”

I wasn’t expecting otherwise. Fine. All fine.

“You know, if you want to talk to someone ever, we’ve got good counselors here who can help you out. Or just listen.”

“Thank you, Detective.” I sound stiff.

Another silence. “Just—take it easy, okay? I’ll let Mrs. Russell know that we’ve talked.”

I wince. And hang up before he can.

65

I sip my wine, grab my phone, stalk into the hall. I want to forget about Little. I want to forget about the Russells.

The Agora. I’ll check my messages. I walk downstairs, place the glass in the kitchen sink. Moving to the living room, I tap my passcode onto the phone screen.

Passcode incorrect.

I furrow my brow. Clumsy fingers. I peck at the screen a second time.

Passcode incorrect.

“What?” I ask. The living room has gone dark with dusk; I reach for the lamp, switch it on. Once more, carefully, eyes on hands: 0-2-1-4.

Passcode incorrect.

The phone twitches. I’m locked out. I don’t understand.

When was the last time I tapped in my passcode? I didn’t need it to answer Little’s call just now; I used Skype to dial Boston earlier. My mind is foggy.

Annoyed, I march back up to the study, to the desktop. Surely I’m not locked out of email as well? I enter the computer password, visit the Gmail home page. My screen name is preloaded into the address field. I type the password slowly.