А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“This is the second time we’ve all been here.” Alistair’s voice has run raw. “First she claims she saw an attack in my house. Now she’s luring my son into her home. This has to stop. Where does it stop?” He looks directly at me. “She’s a menace.”

I stab the picture with my finger. “I know your wife —”

“You don’t know my wife!” he shouts.

I go silent.

“You don’t know anyone ! You stay here in your house and you watch people.”

A flush stalks the length of my neck. My hand drops to my side.

He isn’t finished. “You’ve invented some . . . encounters with some woman who isn’t my wife and isn’t even—” I wait for the next word, the way you brace for a blow. “Isn’t even real, ” he says. “And now you’re harassing my son. You’re harassing all of us.”

The room is quiet.

Finally Little speaks. “All right.”

“She’s delusional,” adds Alistair. There it is. I glance at Ethan; he’s staring at the floor.

“All right, all right,” Little repeats. “Ethan, I think it’s time for you to head home. Mr. Russell, if you could stay here—”

But now it’s my turn.

“Stay here,” I agree. “Maybe you can explain this.” I lift my arm again, up above my head, level with Alistair’s eyes.

He reaches for the paper, takes it. “What is this?”

“It’s a picture your wife drew.”

His face goes blank.

“When she was here. At that table.”

“What is it?” asks Little, moving to Alistair’s side.

“Jane drew it for me.”

“It’s you,” Little says.

I nod. “She was here. This proves it.”

Alistair has collected himself. “It doesn’t prove anything,” he snaps. “No—it proves you’re so crazy that you’re actually trying to . . . fabricate evidence.” He snorts. “You’re out of your mind.”

Ka-pow, out of your mind, I think. Rosemary’s Baby . I feel myself frown. “What do you mean, fabricate evidence?”

“You drew this yourself.”

Between us, Norelli speaks. “Just like you could’ve taken that photo and sent it to yourself and we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”

I reel back, as though I’ve been punched. “I—”

“You okay there, Dr. Fox?” Little, stepping toward me.

The robe drops from my hand again, slithers to the floor.

I’m swaying. The room revolves around me like a carousel. Alistair glowers; Norelli’s eyes have gone dark; Little’s hand hovers over my shoulder. Ethan hangs back, the cat still draped over his arm. They whirl past me, all of them; no one to cling to, no ground to stand on. “I didn’t draw this picture. Jane drew it. Right here.” I wag my fingers toward the kitchen. “And I didn’t take that photo. I couldn’t have taken it. I’m— Something is happening, and you’re not helping .” I can’t put it any other way. I try to seize the room; it slips from my grip. I fumble toward Ethan, reach for him, clasp his shoulder with my shaking hand.

“Stay away from him,” Alistair explodes, but I look into Ethan’s eyes, raise my voice: “Something is happening .”

“What’s happening?”

We all turn as one.

“Front door was open,” says David.

73

He stands framed in the doorway, hands thrust in his pockets, a battered bag slung over one shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asks again as I release my grip on Ethan.

Norelli uncrosses her arms. “Who are you?”

David crosses his in turn. “I live downstairs.”

“So,” says Little, “you’re the famous David.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“You got a last name, David?”

“Most people do.”

“Winters,” I say, dredging it up from the depths of my brain.

David ignores me. “Who are you people?”

“Police,” Norelli answers. “I’m Detective Norelli, this is Detective Little.”

David angles his jaw toward Alistair. “Him I know.”

Alistair nods. “Maybe you can explain what’s wrong with this woman.”

“Who says there’s anything wrong with her?”

Gratitude wells within me. I feel my lungs fill. Someone’s on my side.

Then I remember who that someone is.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Winters?” asks Little.

“Connecticut. On a job.” He cracks his jaw. “Why are you asking?”

“Someone took a picture of Dr. Fox in her sleep. Around two a.m. Then emailed it to her.”

David’s eyes flicker. “That’s messed up.” He looks at me. “Someone broke in?”

Little doesn’t let me answer. “Can anyone confirm you were in Connecticut last night?”

David swings one foot in front of the other. “Lady I was with.”

“Who might that have been?”

“Didn’t get her last name.”

“She have a phone number?”

“Don’t most people?”

“We’re going to need that number,” says Little.

“He’s the only one who could have taken that picture,” I insist.

A beat. David’s brow creases. “What?”

Looking at him, into those depthless eyes, I feel myself waver. “Did you take that picture?”

He sneers. “You think I came up here and—”

“No one thinks that,” Norelli says.

“I do,” I tell her.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” David sounds almost bored. He offers his phone to Norelli. “Here. Call her. Name’s Elizabeth.” Norelli steps toward the living room.

I can’t take another word without a drink. I leave Little’s side, head for the kitchen; behind me I hear his voice.

“Dr. Fox says she saw a woman get assaulted across the way. In Mr. Russell’s house. Do you know anything about this?”

“No. That why she asked me about a scream that time?” I don’t turn around; I’m already tipping wine into a tumbler. “Like I said, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Of course you didn’t,” says Alistair.

I spin to face them, the glass in my hand. “But Ethan said—”

“Ethan, get the hell out of here,” Alistair shouts. “How many times—”

“Calm down, Mr. Russell. Dr. Fox, I really don’t recommend that right now,” says Little, waving a finger at me. I set the tumbler on the counter, but keep my hand wrapped around it. I feel defiant.

He turns back to David. “Have you seen anything unusual in the house across the park?”

“His house?” asks David, glancing at Alistair, who bristles.

“This is—” he begins.

“No, I haven’t seen anything.” David’s bag is slipping down his shoulder; he straightens, jostles it back in place. “Haven’t been looking.”

Little nods. “Uh-huh. And have you met Mrs. Russell?”

“No.”

“How do you know Mr. Russell?”

“I hired him—” Alistair tries, but Little shows him his palm.

“He hired me to do some work,” David says. “Didn’t meet the wife.”

“But you had her earring in your bedroom.”

All eyes on me.

“I saw an earring in your bedroom,” I say, clutching my glass. “On your nightstand. Three pearls. That’s Jane Russell’s earring.”

David sighs. “No, it’s Katherine’s.”

“Katherine?” I say.

He nods. “Woman I was seeing. Wasn’t even seeing her. Woman who spent the night here a few times.”

“When was this?” asks Little.

“Last week. What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Norelli assures him, returning to David’s side. She puts his phone in his hand. “Elizabeth Hughes says she was with him in Darien last night from midnight until ten.”

“Then I came straight here,” David says.

“So why were you in his bedroom?” Norelli asks me.