The Woman in the Window

by A. J. Finn

  “Tenant,” I say.

  “Where does he live? Basement or on top?”

  “Basement.”

  “Is your tenant here?”

  I shift my shoulders into a shrug. “Sometimes.”

  Silence. Little’s fingers tap-dance on the dash. I turn to him. He catches me looking, grins.

  “That’s where they picked you up,” he reminds me, jutting his jaw toward the park.

  “I know,” I mumble.

  “Nice little park.”

  “I guess.”

  “Nice street.”

  “Yes. All nice.”

  He grins again. “Okay,” he says, then looks past me, past my shoulder, into the eyes of the house. “Does this work for the front door, or just the door the EMTs came in last night?” He dangles my house key from one finger, the key ring noosed at his knuckle.

  “Both,” I tell him.

  “Okay, then.” He whirls the key around his finger. “You need me to carry you?”

  39

  He doesn’t carry me, but he does hoist me out of the car, usher me through the gate, propel me up the stairs, my arm flung across his football-field back, my feet half dragged behind me, the crook of the umbrella jaunting over one wrist, as if we’re out for a stroll. A drugged-stupid stroll.

  The sun nearly caves in my eyelids. At the landing Little slides the key into the lock, pushes; the door sails wide, slamming so hard that the glass shivers.

  I wonder if the neighbors are watching. I wonder if Mrs. Wasserman has just seen an economy-size black man drag me into my house. I bet she’s calling the cops right now.

  There’s scarcely room for both of us in the hall—I’m squeezed to one side, pinned there, my shoulder pressed into the wall. Little kicks the door shut, and suddenly it’s dusk. I close my eyes, roll my head against his arm. The key scrapes into the second lock.

  And then I feel it: the warmth of the living room.

  And I smell it: the stale air of my home.

  And I hear it: the squeal of the cat.

  The cat. I’d completely forgotten about Punch.

  I open my eyes. Everything is as it was when I plunged outside: the dishwasher yawning open; the skein of blankets tangled on the sofa; TV glowing, the Dark Passage DVD menu frozen on the screen; and on the coffee table, the two depleted bottles of wine, incandescent in the sunlight, and the four pill canisters, one of them toppled, as though drunk.

  Home. My heart nearly detonates in my chest. I could sob with relief.

  The umbrella slides from my arm, drops to the floor.

  Little steers me to the kitchen table, but I wave my hand left, like a motorist, and we veer off-course toward the sofa, where Punch has wedged himself behind a pillow.

  “There you go,” Little breathes, easing me onto the cushions. The cat observes us. When Little steps back, he sidewinds toward me, picking his way among the blankets, before turning his head to hiss at my escort.

  “Hello to you, too,” Little greets him.

  I ebb into the sofa, feel my heart slow, hear the blood singing softly in my veins. A moment passes; I grip my robe in my hands, regain myself. Home. Safe. Safe. Home.

  The panic seeps from me like water.

  “Why were people in my house?” I ask Little.

  “What’s that?”

  “You said that EMTs came into my house.”

  His eyebrows lift. “They found you in the park. They saw your kitchen door open. They needed to see what was going on.”

  Before I can respond, he turns to the photograph of Livvy on the side table. “Daughter?”

  I nod.

  “She here?”

  I shake my head. “With her father,” I mutter.

  His turn to nod.

  He turns, stops, sizes up the spread on the coffee table. “Someone having a party?”

  I inhale, exhale. “It was the cat,” I say. What’s that from? Goodness me! Why, what was that? Silent be, It was the cat. Shakespeare? I frown. Not Shakespeare. Too cutesy.

  Apparently, I’m also too cutesy, because Little isn’t even smirking. “All this yours?” he asks, inspecting the wine bottles. “Nice merlot.”

  I shift in my seat. I feel like a naughty child. “Yes,” I admit. “But . . .” It looks worse than it is? It’s actually worse than it looks?

  Little fishes in his pocket for the tube of Ativan capsules that the lovely young doctor prescribed. He sets it on the coffee table. I mumble a thank-you.

  And then, deep in the riverbed of my brain, something detaches itself, tumbles in the undertow, rises to the surface.

  It’s a body.

  It’s Jane.

  I open my mouth.

  For the first time, I notice the gun holstered at Little’s hip. I remember Olivia once gawking at a mounted policeman in Midtown; she ogled him for a solid ten seconds before I realized she was staring at his weapon, not his horse. I smiled then, teased her, but here it is, within arm’s reach, and I’m not smiling.

  Little catches me. He tugs his coat over the gun, as though I’d been peeking down his shirt.

  “What about my neighbor?” I ask.

  He digs his phone from his pocket, brings it close to his eyes. I wonder if he’s nearsighted. Then he swipes it, drops his hand to his side.

  “This whole house is just you, huh?” He walks toward the kitchen. “And your tenant,” he adds before I can do so. “That go downstairs?” He jabs a thumb toward the basement door.

  “Yes. What about my neighbor?”

  He checks his phone again—then stops, stoops. When he stands up, unfolding his hundred-yard body, he’s got the cat’s water bowl in his right hand and, in the left, the landline phone. He looks at one, then the other, as though weighing them. “Guy’s probably thirsty,” he says, stepping over to the sink.

  I watch his reflection in the television screen, hear the gush of the faucet. There’s a shallow puddle of merlot left in one of the bottles. I wonder if I could knock it back without him seeing.

  The water bowl rings against the floor, and now Little sets the phone in its dock, squints at the readout. “Battery’s dead,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “Just saying.” He approaches the basement door. “Can I bang on this?” he asks me. I nod.

  He plays his knuckles against the wood—shave-and-a-haircut—and waits. “What’s your tenant’s name?”

  “David.”

  Little knocks again. Nothing.

  He turns to me. “So where’s your phone, Dr. Fox?”

  I blink. “My phone?”

  “Your cell phone.” He waves his own at me. “You got one?”

  I nod.

  “Well, they didn’t find it on you. Most people would go straight for their phone if they’d been away all night.”

  “I don’t know.” Where is it? “I don’t use it much.”

  He says nothing.

  I’ve had enough. I brace my feet against the carpet, haul myself upright. The room wobbles around me, a spinning plate; but after a moment it steadies, and I lock eyes with Little.

  Punch congratulates me with a tiny meow.

  “You all right?” Little asks, stepping toward me. “You good?”

  “Yes.” My robe has flapped open; I gather it to my body, knot the sash tight. “What is happening with my neighbor?” But he’s stopped short, his eyes on his phone.

  I repeat myself: “What—”

  “Okay,” he says, “okay. They’re on their way over.” And now suddenly he’s surging through the kitchen like a great wave, his gaze revolving around the room. “Is that the window you saw your neighbor from?” He points.

  “Yes.”

  He strides to the sink, one long lunge of his long legs, props his palms on the counter, peers outside. I study his back, filling the window. Then I look at the coffee table, start to clear it up.

  He turns. “Leave all that there,” he says. “Leave the TV on, too. What movie is that?”

  “An ol
d thriller.”

  “You like thrillers?”

  I fidget. The lorazepam must be running dry. “Sure. Why can’t I clean up?”

  “Because we’ll want to see exactly what was going on with you when you witnessed the attack on your neighbor.”

  “Doesn’t it matter more what was going on with her?”

  Little ignores me. “Maybe put that cat somewhere,” he tells me. “Seems like he’s got an attitude. Don’t want him scratching anybody.” He pivots back to the sink, fills a glass with water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated. You’ve had a shock.” He crosses the room, puts it in my hand. There’s something almost tender about it. I half expect him to caress my cheek.

  I bring the glass to my lips.

  The buzzer rings.

  40

  “I’ve got Mr. Russell with me,” Detective Norelli announces, unnecessarily.

  Her voice is slight, girlish, a bad fit for the high-rise sweater, the bitch-on-wheels leather coat. She sweeps the room with a single glance, then trains a glass-cutting gaze on me. Doesn’t introduce herself. She is Bad Cop, no doubt about it, and with disappointment I realize that Little’s aw-shucks shtick must be just smoke.

  Alistair trails her, fresh and crisp in khakis and sweater, although there’s a ridge of flesh drawn bowstring-taut at his throat. Maybe it’s always there. He looks at me, smiles. “Hi,” he says, with faint surprise.

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  I sway. I’m uneasy. My system is still sluggish, like an engine clotted with sugar; and now my neighbor has just back-footed me with a grin.

  “You okay?” Little closes the hall door behind Alistair, moves to my side.

  I swirl my head. Yes. No.

  He hooks a finger beneath my elbow. “Let’s get you—”

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” Norelli’s frowning.

  Little raises a hand. “She’s good—she’s good. She’s under sedation.”

  My cheeks simmer.

  He guides me toward the kitchen alcove, sits me down at the table—the same table where Jane blew through an entire matchbox, where we played sloppy chess and talked about our kids, where she told me to photograph the sunset. The same table where she spoke of Alistair and her past.

  Norelli moves to the kitchen window, phone in hand. “Ms. Fox,” she says.

  Little interrupts her: “Dr. Fox.”

  She glitches, then reboots. “Dr. Fox, I understand from Detective Little that you saw something last night.”

  I flick a glance at Alistair, still wallflowered by the hall door.

  “I saw my neighbor get stabbed.”

  “Who’s your neighbor?” Norelli asks.

  “Jane Russell.”

  “And you saw this through the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which window?”

  I point past her. “That one.”

  Norelli follows my finger. She’s got moonless eyes, flat and dark; I watch them scope the Russell house, left to right, as though she’s reading lines of text.

  “Did you see who stabbed your neighbor?” Still looking outside.

  “No, but I saw her bleeding, and I saw something in her chest.”

  “What was in her chest?”

  I shift in the chair. “Something silver.” What does it matter?

  “Something silver?”

  I nod.

  Norelli nods, too; turns, looks at me, then past me, into the living room. “Who was with you last night?”

  “No one.”

  “So that whole setup on the table is yours?”

  I shift again. “Yes.”

  “Okay, Dr. Fox.” But she’s watching Little. “I’m going to—”

  “His wife—” I begin, raising a hand, as Alistair moves toward us.

  “Wait a moment.” Norelli steps forward, places her phone on the table in front me. “I’m going to play for you the 911 call you placed at ten thirty-three last night.”

  “His wife—”

  “I think it answers a lot of questions.” She slashes the screen with one long finger, and a voice blasts my ears, speakerphone-tinny: “911, what is—”

  Norelli starts, thumbs the volume control, dials it down.

  “—your emergency?”

  “My neighbor.” Shrill. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.” It’s me, I know—my words, anyway—but not my voice; I sound slurred, melted.

  “Ma’am, slow down.” That drawl. Maddening even now. “What’s your address?”

  I look at Alistair, at Little. They’re watching Norelli’s phone.

  Norelli is watching me.

  “And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

  “Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.” I wince. Almost unintelligible.

  “What?”

  “I said help.” A cough, wet, spluttery. Near tears.

  “Help is on the way, ma’am. I need you to calm down. Could you give me your name?”

  “Anna Fox.”

  “All right, Anna. What’s your neighbor’s name?”

  “Jane Russell. Oh, God.” A croak.

  “Are you with her now?”

  “No. She’s across—she’s in the house across the park from me.”

  I feel Alistair’s gaze on me. I return it, level.

  “Anna, did you stab your neighbor?”

  A pause. “What?”

  “Did you stab your neighbor?”

  “No.”

  Now Little is watching me, too. All three of them, staring me down. I lean forward, look at Norelli’s cell. The screen fades to black as the voices continue.

  “All right.”

  “I looked through the window and saw her get stabbed.”

  “All right. Do you know who stabbed her?”

  Another pause, longer.

  “Ma’am? Do you know who—”

  A rasp and a rumble. The dropped phone. Up there on the study carpet—that’s where it must remain, like an abandoned body.

  “Ma’am?”

  Silence.

  I crane my neck, look at Little. He isn’t watching me anymore.

  Norelli bends over the table, drags a finger across her screen. “The dispatcher stayed on the line for six minutes,” she says, “until the EMTs confirmed they were on the scene.”

  The scene. And what did they find at the scene? What’s happened to Jane?

  “I don’t understand.” Suddenly I feel tired, hollowed-out tired. I cast a slow glance around the kitchen, at the cutlery bristling in the dishwasher, at the ruined bottles in the bin. “What’s happened to—”

  “Nothing’s happened, Dr. Fox,” says Little, softly. “To anyone.”

  I look at him. “What do you mean?”

  He hitches his trousers at the thighs, squats beside me. “I think,” he tells me, “that with all that nice merlot you were drinking and the medication you were taking and the movie you were watching, you maybe got a little excited and saw something that wasn’t there.”

  I stare at him.

  He blinks at me.

  “You think I imagined this?” My voice sounds pinched.

  Shaking his massive head now: “No, ma’am, I think you were just overstimulated, and it all went to your head a little.”

  My mouth has swung open.

  “Does your medication have any side effects?” he presses me.

  “Yes,” I say. “But—”

  “Hallucinations, maybe?”

  “I don’t know.” Even though I do know, I know it does.

  “The doctor at the hospital said that hallucinations can be a side effect of the medication you’re taking.”

  “I wasn’t hallucinating. I saw what I saw.” I struggle to my feet. The cat bolts from beneath the chair, streaks into the living room.

  Little raises his hands, his worn palms broad and flat. “Now, you heard the phone call just now. You were having a pretty tough time talking.”

  Norelli steps forward. “When the hospital checked, you had a bl
ood-alcohol level of point two-two,” she tells me. “That’s almost three times the legal limit.”

  “So?”

  Behind her, Alistair’s eyes are ping-ponging between us.

  “I wasn’t hallucinating,” I hiss. My words tumble as they flee my mouth, land on their sides. “I wasn’t imagining things. I’m not insane.”

  “I understand your family doesn’t live here, ma’am?” Norelli says.

  “Is that a question?”

  “That’s a question.”

  Alistair: “My son says you’re divorced.”

  “Separated,” I correct him, automatically.

  “And from what Mr. Russell tells us,” says Norelli, “no one in the neighborhood ever sees you. Seems you don’t go outside very often.”

  I say nothing. I do nothing.

  “So here’s another theory,” she continues. “You were looking for some attention.”

  I step back, bump into the kitchen counter. My robe flaps open.

  “No friends, family’s wherever, you have too much to drink and decide to raise a little ruckus.”

  “You think I made this up?” I pitch forward, bellowing.

  “That’s what I think,” she confirms.

  Little clears his throat. “I think,” he says, his voice soft, “that you were maybe going a little stir-crazy in here, and—we’re not saying you did this on purpose . . .”

  “You’re the ones imagining things.” I point a wobbly finger at them, wave it like a wand. “You’re the ones making things up. I saw her covered in blood through that window.”

  Norelli closes her eyes, sighs. “Ma’am, Mr. Russell says his wife has been out of town. He says you’ve never met her.”

  Silence. The room feels electrified.

  “She was in here,” I say, slowly and clearly, “twice.”

  “There’s—”

  “First she helped me off the street. Then she visited again. And”—glaring at Alistair now—“he came looking for her.”

  He nods. “I was looking for my son, not my wife.” He swallows. “And you said no one had been here.”

  “I lied. She sat at that table. We played chess.”

  He looks at Norelli, helpless.

  “And you made her scream,” I say.

  Now Norelli turns to Alistair.

  “She says she heard a scream,” he explains.

  “I did hear a scream. Three days ago.” Is that accurate? Maybe not. “And Ethan told me it was her.” Not strictly true, but close.