А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“And I just had to put my mom’s name on the account. I bet that got you excited.” He smirks. “But you told Lizzie other stuff, too.” He leans forward again, the letter opener pointed at my chest. “You had an affair, you slut. And you killed your family.”

I can’t speak. I’ve got nothing left.

“And then you just got so freaked out about Katie. It was insane. You were insane. I mean, I kind of get it. I did it right in front of my dad, and he freaked out, too. Although I think he was relieved to have her gone, to be honest. I was. Like I said, she pissed me off.”

He shuffles up the bed, closer to me. “Move over.” I fold my legs, brace them against his thigh. “I should have checked the windows, but it all happened too fast. And anyway, it was so totally easy to deny it. Easier than lying. Easier than the truth.” He shakes his head. “I feel, like, bad for him. He just wanted to protect me.”

“He tried to protect you from me,” I say. “Even though he knew—”

“No,” he tells me, voice flat. “He tried to protect you from me .”

I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman, Alistair said. Not for Ethan’s sake, but for mine.

“But, you know, what can you do, right? One of the shrinks told my parents I was just bad .” He shrugs again. “Fine. Fucking fine.”

The anger, the profanity—he’s escalating. Blood surges to my temples. Focus. Remember. Think.

“You know, I kind of feel bad for the cops, too. That one guy was trying so hard to put up with you. What a saint.” Another sniffle. “The other one seemed like a bitch.”

I’m barely listening. “Tell me about your mother,” I murmur.

He looks at me. “What?”

“Your mother,” I say, nodding. “Tell me about her.”

A pause. An ache of thunder outside.

“Like . . . what?” he asks, wary.

I clear my throat. “You said that her boyfriends mistreated you.”

Now he glares. “I said they beat the shit out of me.”

“Yes. I bet that happened a lot.”

“Yeah.” Still glaring. “Why?”

“You said you thought you were ‘just bad.’”

“I said that’s what the other shrink said.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you’re just bad.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t?”

“No.” I try to steady my breath. “I don’t believe people are made that way.” I sit up straighter against the pillows, smooth the sheets across my thighs. “ You weren’t made that way.”

“No?” He holds the blade loosely in his hand.

“Things happened to you when you were a child. There were . . . things you saw. Things beyond your control.” My voice is gaining strength. “Things you survived.”

He twitches.

“She wasn’t a good mother to you. You’re right.” He swallows; I swallow. “And I think that by the time your parents adopted you, you were very badly damaged. I think . . .” Do I risk it? “I think they care about you very much. Even if they haven’t been perfect,” I add.

He looks me in the eye. A tiny ripple distorts his face.

“They’re afraid of me,” he says.

I nod. “You said it yourself,” I remind him. “You said that Alistair was trying to protect me by keeping you—by keeping us apart.”

He doesn’t move.

“But I think he was afraid for you, too. I think he wanted to protect you, too.” I extend my arm. “I think that when they took you home, they saved you.”

He’s watching me.

“They love you,” I say. “You deserve love. And if we speak to them, I know—I’m sure—they’ll do everything they can to keep protecting you. Both of them. I know they want to . . . connect with you.”

My hand approaches his shoulder, hovers there.

“What happened to you when you were young wasn’t your fault,” I whisper. “And—”

“Enough of this bullshit.” He jerks away before I can touch him. I reel my arm back in.

I’ve lost him. I feel the blood drain from my brain. My mouth goes dry.

He leans toward me, looks into my eyes, his own bright and earnest. “What do I smell like?”

I shake my head.

“Come on. Take a whiff. What do I smell like?”

I breathe in. I think of that first time, inhaling the scent of the candle. Lavender.

“Rain,” I answer.

“And?”

I can’t bear to say it. “Cologne.”

“Romance. By Ralph Lauren,” he adds. “I wanted this to be nice for you.”

I shake my head again.

“Oh, yes. What I can’t decide,” he continues, thoughtful, “is whether it’s a fall down the stairs or an overdose. You’ve been so sad lately, and all. And so many pills on the coffee table. But you’re also a fucking wreck, so you could, you know, miss a step.”

I don’t believe this is happening. I look at the cat. He’s on his side again, asleep.

“I’m going to miss you. No one else will. No one will notice for days, and no one will care afterward.”

I coil my legs beneath the sheets.

“Maybe your shrink, but I bet he’s had enough of you. You told Lizzie he puts up with your agoraphobia and your guilt. Jesus Christ. Another fucking saint.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch.”

With all my strength, I kick.

96

I connect with his stomach. He doubles over and I reload my legs, kick him again, in the face. My heel cracks against his nose. He spills to the floor.

I rip the sheets back and spring from the bed, run through the doorway into the black hall beyond.

Above me, rain drills into the skylight. I stumble on the runner, sink to my knees. Seize the banister with one flailing hand.

Suddenly the stairwell glows white as lightning flares overhead. And in that instant I glance through the spindles of the banister, see every step illuminated, spiraling down, down, down, all the way to the bottom.

Down, down, down.

I blink. The stairwell is plunged into darkness again. Nothing to see, nothing to sense, except the percussion of the rain.

I haul myself to my feet, fly down the steps. Thunder rolls outside. And then:

“You bitch .” I hear him stumble onto the landing, his voice wet. “You bitch .” The banister creaks as he barges into it.

I need to get to the kitchen. To the box cutter, still unsheathed atop the kitchen table. To the slivers of glass glittering in the recycling bin. To the intercom.

To the doors.

But can you go outside? asks Ed, just a whisper.

I’ve got to. Leave me alone.

He’ll overtake you in the kitchen. You won’t make it outside. And even if you did . . .

I hit the next floor and whirl like a compass, orienting myself. Four doors surround me. The study. The library. The closet. The half bath.

Choose one.

Wait—

Choose one.

The bathroom. Heavenly Rapture. I grasp the knob, tear the door open, step inside. I lurk within the doorway, my breath short and shallow—

—and he’s coming now, rushing down the stairs. I don’t breathe.

He reaches the landing. Stops, four feet away from me. I feel the air stir.

For a moment I hear nothing except the drumbeat of rain. Sweat creeps down my back.

“Anna.” Low, cold. I cringe.

Gripping the frame with one hand, hard enough to prize it loose, I peek into the dark of the landing.

He’s faint, just a shade among shades, but I can make out the span of his shoulders, the floating white of his hands. His back is to me. I can’t tell which hand holds the letter opener.

Slowly, he rotates; I see him in profile, facing the library door. He gazes straight ahead, motionless.