А Финн - The Woman in the Window

But my hand is shaking, and now wine slops onto the front of my robe, staining it blood-red, right above the heart. It looks like a wound.

Little is still chattering in my ear—“Anna? You okay there?”—as I return to the kitchen, phone pressed to my temple, and place the glass in the sink.

“. . . everything okay?” Little asks.

“Fine,” I tell him. I flip the tap, shed my robe, push it under running water as I stand there in my T-shirt and sweatpants. The wine stain boils beneath the flow, bleeding, thinning, going a soft pink. I squeeze it, my fingers blanching in the cold.

“You able to get to the front door?”

“Yes.”

Off with the tap. I pull the robe from the sink and wring it.

“Okay. Stay there.”

Shaking the robe dry, I see that I’m out of paper towels—the spindle stands naked. I reach for the linen drawer, slide it open. And inside, atop a stack of folded napkins, I see myself again.

Not deep asleep in close-up, not half-baked into a pillow, but upright, beaming, my hair swept back, my eyes bright and keen—a likeness in paper and ink.

A nifty trick, I’d said.

A Jane Russell original, she’d said.

And then she’d signed it.

70

The paper twitches in my hand. I look at the signature slashed in the corner.

I’d almost doubted it. I’d almost doubted her. Yet here it is, a souvenir from that vanished night. A memento. Memento mori. Remember that you have to die.

Remember.

And I do: I remember the chess and the chocolate; I remember the cigarettes, the wine, the tour of the house. Most of all, I remember Jane, braying and boozing, in living color; her silver fillings; the way she leaned into the window as she took in her house— Quite a place, she’d murmured.

She was here.

“We’re almost with you,” Little is saying.

“I’ve got—” I clear my throat. “I’ve got—”

He interrupts me. “We’re turning onto . . .”

But I don’t hear where they are, because through the window I’m watching Ethan exit his front door. He must have been inside the whole time. I’d thrown skipping-stone glances at his house for an hour, my eyes leaping from kitchen to parlor to bedroom; I don’t know how I missed him.

“Anna?” Little’s voice sounds tiny, shrunken. I look down, see the phone in my hand, by my hip; see the robe pooled at my feet. Then I clap the phone onto the counter and set the picture next to the sink. I rap on the glass, hard.

“Anna?” Little calls again. I ignore him.

I rap harder still. Ethan has swerved onto the sidewalk now, heading toward my house. Yes.

I know what I have to do.

My fingers grip the window sash. I tense them, drum them, flex them. Screw my eyes shut. And lift.

Frigid air seizes my body, so raw that my heart feels faint; storms my clothes, sets them trembling around me. My ears brim with the sound of wind. I’m filling up with cold, running over with cold.

But I scream his name all the same, a single roar, two syllables, springing from my tongue, cannonballing into the outside world: E-than!

I can hear the silence splinter. I imagine flocks of birds mounting, passersby stopping in their tracks.

And then, with my next breath, last breath:

I know.

I know your mother was the woman I said she was; I know she was here; I know you’re lying.

I slam the window shut, lean my forehead against the glass. Open my eyes.

He’s there on the sidewalk, frozen, wearing a too-big down coat and not-big-enough jeans, his flap of hair fanning in the breeze. He looks at me, breath clouding before his face. I look back, my chest heaving, my heart going ninety miles an hour.

He shakes his head. He keeps walking.

71

I watch him until he’s out of sight, my lungs deflating, my shoulders slumped, the chill air haunting the kitchen. That was my best shot. At least he didn’t run home.

But still. But still. The detectives will be here any moment. I’ve got the portrait—there, facedown on the floor, blown by the draft. I stoop to collect it, to grab my robe, damp in my hand.

The doorbell rings. Little. I straighten, seize the phone, drop it into my pocket; hurry toward the door, bash the buzzer with my fist, wrench the lock. Watch the frosted glass. A shadow rises, resolves itself into a figure.

The scrap of paper shakes in my hand. I can’t wait. I reach for the knob, twist it, yank the door open.

It’s Ethan.

I’m too surprised to greet him. I stand there, the paper pinched between my fingers, the robe dripping onto my feet.

His cheeks are red from the cold. His hair needs cutting; it skims his brows, curls around his ears. His eyes have gone wide.

We look at each other.

“You can’t just scream at me, you know,” he says quietly.

This is unexpected. Before I can stop myself: “I didn’t know how else to reach you,” I say.

Drops of water tap on my feet, on the floor. I shift the robe beneath my arm.

Punch trots into the room from the stairwell, heads straight for Ethan’s shins.

“What do you want?” he asks, looking down. I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or to the cat.

“I know your mother was here,” I tell him.

He sighs, shakes his head. “You’re—delusional.” The word steps off his tongue on stilts, as though unfamiliar to him. I don’t need to wonder where he heard it. Or about whom.

I shake my head in turn. “No,” I say, and I feel my lips bending into a smile. “No. I found this.” I hold the portrait in front of him.

He looks at it.

The house is silent, except for the shuffle of Punch’s fur against Ethan’s jeans.

I watch him. He’s just gawking at the picture.

“What is this?” he asks.

“It’s me.”

“Who drew it?”

I incline my head, step forward. “You can read the signature.”

He takes the paper. His eyes narrow. “But—”

The buzzer jolts us both. Our heads snap toward the door. Punch streaks toward the sofa.

With Ethan watching, I reach for the intercom, press it. Footsteps clop in the hall, and Little enters the room, a tidal wave of a man, Norelli trailing in his wake.

They see Ethan first.

“What’s going on here?” Norelli asks, her eyes swerving hard from him to me.

“You said that someone had been in your house,” says Little.

Ethan looks at me, slides a glance toward the door. “You stay here,” I say.

“You can go,” Norelli tells him.

“Stay,” I bark, and he doesn’t move.

“Have you checked the house?” Little asks. I shake my head.

He nods at Norelli, who walks across the kitchen, pausing by the basement door. She eyes the stepladder, eyes me. “Tenant,” I say.

She proceeds to the stairwell without a word.

I turn back to Little. His hands are plunged into his pockets; his eyes are locked on mine. I take a breath.

“So much—so much has happened,” I say. “First I got this . . .” My fingers dip into the pocket of the robe and dig out my phone. “. . . this message.” The robe lands on the floor with a splat.

I click on the email, expand the picture. Little takes the phone from me, holds it in his massive hand.

As he inspects the screen, I shiver—it’s chilly in here, and I’m barely dressed. My hair, I know, is snarly, bed-headed. I feel self-conscious.

So does Ethan, it seems, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Next to Little, he looks impossibly delicate, almost breakable. I want to hold him.

The detective thumbs the phone screen. “Jane Russell.”

“But it’s not,” I tell him. “Look at the email address.”

Little squints. “Guesswhoanna@gmail.com,” he recites carefully.