А Финн - The Woman in the Window

My hand strums the screen, absently. A drink, I think. Just one—it hurts to swallow.

A flare of color at my fingertips. I glance at the phone; I’ve opened the photo roll. My heart slows: There’s that picture of me, sleeping. The picture I allegedly took.

I recoil. After a moment, I delete it.

Instantly, the previous photo appears.

For a moment I don’t recognize it. Then I remember: I snapped the shot from the kitchen window. A sunset, sherbet-orange, distant buildings biting into it like teeth. The street golden with light. A single bird frozen in the sky, wings flung wide.

And reflected in the glass is the woman I knew as Jane.

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Translucent, soft at the edges—but Jane, unmistakably, haunting the lower-right corner like a ghost. She looks at the camera, eyes level, lips parted. One arm stretches out of frame—grinding a cigarette into a bowl, I remember. Above her head rises a thick whorl of smoke. The time stamp reads 06:04 p.m., the date almost two weeks ago.

Jane. I’m hunched over the screen, barely breathing.

Jane.

The world is a beautiful place, she said.

Don’t forget that, and don’t miss it, she said.

Attagirl, she said.

She did say these things, all of them, because she was real.

Jane.

I tumble from the bed, sheets trailing after me, laptop sliding to the floor. Spring to the window, rip back the curtains.

Now the lights are on in the Russells’ parlor—that room where it all began. And there they sit, the two of them, on that striped love seat: Alistair and his wife. He slouches, beer bottle in his fist; her legs are cinched beneath her as she rakes a hand through her glossy hair.

The liars .

I look at the phone in my hand.

What do I do with this?

I know what Little would say, will say: The photo doesn’t prove anything beyond its own existence—and that of an anonymous woman.

“Dr. Fielding isn’t going to listen to you, either,” Ed tells me.

Shut up.

But he’s right.

Think. Think.

“What about Bina, Mommy?”

Stop it.

Think.

There’s only one move. My eyes travel from the parlor to the dark bedroom upstairs.

Take the pawn.

“Hello?”

A baby-bird voice, fragile and faint. I peer through the dark into his window. No sign of him.

“It’s Anna,” I say.

“I know.” Almost a whisper.

“Where are you?”

“In my room.”

“I don’t see you.”

A moment later he appears in the window like a phantom, slim and pale in a white T-shirt. I put a hand to the glass.

“Can you see me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I need you to come over.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I’m not allowed.”

I drop my gaze to the parlor. Alistair and Jane haven’t moved.

“I know, but it’s very important. It’s very important.”

“My dad took the key away.”

“I know.”

A pause. “If I can see you . . .” He trails off.

“What?”

“If I can see you, they can see you.”

I rock back on one foot, tug at the curtains, leaving a slit between them. Check the parlor. As they were.

“Just come,” I say. “Please. You’re not . . .”

“What?”

“You’re— When can you leave your house?”

Another pause. I see him inspect his phone, press it to his ear again. “My parents watch The Good Wife at ten. I can maybe go out then.”

Now I check my phone. Twenty minutes. “All right. Good.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Don’t alarm him. You’re not safe. “But there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“It’d be easier for me to come over tomorrow.”

“It can’t wait. Really—”

I glance downstairs. Jane is gazing at her lap, clutching a bottle of beer.

Alistair is gone.

“Hang up the phone,” I say, my voice leaping.

“Why?”

“ Hang up .”

His mouth falls open.

His room bursts into light.

Behind him stands Alistair, his hand on the switch.

Ethan spins, arm dropping to one side. I hear the line go dead.

And I watch the scene in silence.

Alistair looms in the doorway, speaking. Ethan steps forward, raises his hand, wags the phone.

For a moment they stand still.

Then Alistair strides toward his son. Takes the phone from him. Looks at it.

Looks at Ethan.

Moves past him, to the window, glaring. I withdraw farther into my bedroom.

He spreads his arms, folds a shutter over either half of the glass. Presses them tight.

The room is sealed shut.

Checkmate.

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I turn from the curtains and stare into my bedroom.

I can’t imagine what’s happening over there. Because of me.

I drag my feet to the stairwell. With each step I think of Ethan, behind those windows, alone with his father.

Down, down, down.

I reach the kitchen. As I rinse a glass at the sink, a low burr of thunder sounds, and I peep through the blinds. The clouds are scudding faster now, the tree branches flailing. The wind is picking up. The storm is coming.

I sit at the table, nursing a merlot. silver bay, new zealand, the label reads, below a little etching of a sea-tossed ship. Maybe I can move to New Zealand, start fresh there. I like the sound of Silver Bay. I’d love to sail again.

If I ever leave this house.

I walk to the window and lift a slat; rain is prickling the glass. I look across the park. His shutters are still closed.

As soon as I return to the table, the doorbell rings.

It rips through the silence like an alarm. My hand jolts; wine slops over the brim of the glass. I look at the door.

It’s him. It’s Alistair.

Panic ambushes me. My fingers dive into my pocket, clutch the phone. And with the other hand I reach for the box cutter.

I stand and cross the kitchen slowly. Approach the intercom. Brace myself, look at the screen.

Ethan.

My lungs relax.

Ethan, rocking on his heels, arms wrapped around himself. I press the buzzer and turn the lock. An instant later he’s inside, his hair sparkling with raindrops.

“What are you doing here?”

He stares. “You told me to come.”

“I thought your father . . .”

He closes the door, moves past me into the living room. “I said it was a friend from swimming.”

“Didn’t he check your phone?” I ask, following him.

“I saved your number under a different name.”

“What if he’d called me back?”

Ethan shrugs. “He didn’t. What’s that?” He’s looking at the box cutter.

“Nothing.” I drop it into my pocket.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

I nod.

While he’s in the red room, I tap at my phone, ready my move.

The toilet flushes, the faucet gushes, and he’s walking toward me again. “Where’s Punch?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’s his paw?”

“Fine.” Right now, I don’t care. “I want to show you something.” I press the phone into his hand. “Hit the Photos app.”

He looks at me, brow furrowed.

“Just open the app,” I repeat.

As he does, I watch his face. The grandfather clock starts to toll ten o’clock. I’m holding my breath.

For a moment, nothing. He’s impassive. “Our street. At sunrise,” he says. “Or—wait, that’s west. So it’s sunse—”

He stops.

There it is.

A moment passes.

He lifts his wide eyes to me.

Six tolls, seven.

He opens his mouth.

Eight. Nine.

“What—” he begins.

Ten.

“I think it’s time for the truth,” I tell him.

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As the last deep bell rings, he stands before me, barely breathing, until I grasp his shoulder and steer him toward the sofa. We sit, Ethan still holding the phone in his hand.