А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“I promise.”

“So when I’m training you next week, I won’t hear anything—you know. Disturbing.”

“Nothing except the disturbing sounds I usually make.”

I listen to her smile. “Dr. Fielding said that you left the house again. Went down to the coffee shop.”

An eternity ago. “I did.”

“How was that?”

“Oh, horrific.”

“Still.”

“Still.”

Another pause. “One last time . . .” she says.

“I promise. This was all in my head.”

We say our goodbyes. We end the call.

My hand is rubbing the back of my neck, the way it often does when I lie.

86

I need to think before proceeding. There’s no margin for error. I have no allies.

Or perhaps one ally. I won’t reach out to him yet, though. Can’t.

Think. I need to think. And first I need to sleep. Maybe it’s the wine—it’s probably the wine—but suddenly I feel very tired. I check my phone. Almost ten thirty. Time flies.

I return to the living room, switch off the lamp. Up to the study, power down the desktop (message from Rook&Roll: Where did u go???). Up again to the bedroom. Punch follows me, tripping. Must do something about that paw. Maybe Ethan can take him to the vet.

I glance into the bathroom. Too exhausted to wash my face, to brush my teeth. Besides, I did both this morning—will catch up tomorrow. I shed my clothes, scoop up the cat, climb into bed.

Punch tours the sheets, settling in a far corner. I listen to him breathe.

And again, perhaps it’s the wine—it’s almost certainly the wine—but I can’t sleep. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, at the ripple of crown molding along the edges; I roll to one side, peer into the dark of the hall. I turn onto my stomach, press my face against the pillow.

The temazepam. Still in its bottle on the coffee table. I should swing myself upright, head downstairs. Instead I thrash onto my other side.

Now I can see across the park. The Russell house has put itself to bed: The kitchen is dark; the curtains are drawn in the parlor; Ethan’s room is lit only by the phantom glow of the computer monitor.

I stare at it until my eyes go weak.

“What are you going to do, Mommy?”

I flip over, bury my face in the pillow, crush my eyelids shut. Not now. Not now. Focus on something else, anything else.

Focus on Jane.

I rewind. I replay the conversation with Bina; I picture Ethan at the window, backlit, fingers splayed against the glass. I switch reels, zip through Vertigo, through Ethan’s visit. The lonely hours of the week rush by in reverse; my kitchen fills with visitors—first the detectives, then David, then Alistair and Ethan. Accelerating now, blurring, past the coffee shop, past the hospital, past the night I watched her die, the camera leaping from the floor to my hands—back, back, back to the moment she turned from the sink and faced me.

Stop. I twist onto my back, open my eyes. The ceiling spreads above me, a projection screen.

And filling the frame is Jane—the woman I knew as Jane. She stands at the kitchen window, that braid dangling between her shoulders.

The scene replays in slow motion.

Jane revolves toward me, and I zoom in on her bright face, the electric eyes, the gleaming silver pendant. Pull out now, go wide: a glass of water in one hand, a tumbler of brandy in the other. “No idea if brandy actually works !” she trills, in surround sound.

I freeze the frame.

What would Wesley say? Let’s refine our inquiry, Fox.

Question one: Why does she introduce herself to me as Jane Russell?

. . . Question one, addendum: Does she? Aren’t I the one who speaks first, calls her by that name?

I rewind again, to the moment I first heard her voice. She pivots back toward the sink. Play: “I was just headed next door . . .”

Yes. That was it—that was the moment I decided who she was. The moment I read the board wrong.

So, second question: How does she respond? I fast-forward, squint at the ceiling, zero in on her mouth as I hear myself speak: “You’re the woman from across the park,” I say. “You’re Jane Russell.”

She flushes. Her lips part. She says—

And now I hear something else, something off-screen.

Something downstairs.

The sound of breaking glass.

87

If I dial 911, how fast can they get here? If I call Little, will he pick up?

My hand springs to my side.

No phone.

I slap the pillow beside me, the blankets. Nothing. The phone isn’t here.

Think. Think . When did I last use it? On the stairs, when I was talking to Bina. And then—and then I went into the living room to turn off the lights. What did I do with the phone? Bring it up to the study? Leave it there?

Doesn’t matter, I realize. I don’t have it.

That sound splits the silence again. A crash of glass.

I step out of bed, one leg before the other, press my feet into the carpet. Push myself upright. Find my robe draped on a chair, tug it on. Tread toward the door.

Outside, gray falls from the skylight. I steal through the doorway, flatten my back against the wall. Down the coiling staircase, my breath shallow, my heart a cannon.

I alight on the next landing. All is quiet below.

Slowly—slowly—I heel-toe into the study, feel rattan beneath my feet, then carpet. From the doorway I scan the desk. The phone isn’t there.

I turn around. I’m one floor away. I’m unarmed. I can’t call for help.

Glass shatters downstairs.

I shudder, knock my hip against the knob of the closet door.

The closet door.

I seize the knob. Twist. Hear the catch, pull the door open.

Charcoal darkness yawns before me. I step forward.

Inside, I wave my hand to the right, brush my fingers against a shelf. The lightbulb string bats against my forehead. Can I risk it? No—it’s too bright; it would spill into the stairwell.

I move ahead in the dark, both hands fanning out now, like I’m playing blindman’s bluff. Until one of them touches it: the cool metal of the toolbox. I feel for the latch, flick it, reach inside.

The box cutter.

I retreat from the closet, weapon in my fist, and slide the switch; the blade peeps out, glinting in a stray moonbeam. I walk to the top of the stairs, elbow tucked tight against my body, the box cutter aimed straight ahead. With my other hand I grip the banister. I put one foot forward.

And then I remember the phone in the library. The landline. Just a few yards away. I turn.

But before I can take a step, I hear another sound from downstairs:

“Mrs. Fox,” someone calls. “Come join me in the kitchen.”

88

I know the voice.

The blade trembles in my hand as I make my way down the stairs, carefully, the banister smooth beneath my palm. I hear my breath. I hear my footsteps.

“That’s right. Quicker, please.”

I reach the floor, hover just outside the doorway. Inhale so deep that I cough, splutter. I try to muffle it, even though he knows I’m here.

“Come on in.”

I come on in.

Moonlight floods the kitchen, paving the countertops silver, filling the empty bottles by the window. The faucet gleams; the sink is a bright basin. Even the hardwood shines.

He’s leaning against the island, a silhouette in the white light, shadow-flat. Rubble glitters at his feet: shards and curls of glass sprayed across the floor. On the countertop beside him stands a skyline of bottles and glasses, brimming with the moon.

“Sorry for . . .”—he sweeps his arm around the room—“the mess. I didn’t want to have to go upstairs.”

I say nothing, but flex my fingers around the handle of the box cutter.

“I’ve been patient, Mrs. Fox.” Alistair sighs, turning his head to the side, so that I can see his profile edged with light: the high forehead, the steep nose. “ Dr. Fox. Whatever you . . . call yourself.” His words drip with booze. He’s very drunk, I realize.