The Woman in the Window

by A. J. Finn

  “My dad says you’re crazy.”

  I say nothing.

  He retreats a step. “I have to leave. I shouldn’t be here.”

  I take a step forward. “Where is your mother?”

  He says nothing, just looks at me, eyes wide. Use a light touch, Wesley always advised us, only I’m past that point.

  “Is your mother dead?”

  Nothing. I see the firelight reflected in his eyes. His pupils are tiny sparks.

  Then he mouths something I can’t hear.

  “What?” I lean in, hear him whisper a pair of words:

  “I’m scared.”

  And before I can reply, he bolts to the door, flings it open. It swings there as the front door groans, slams shut.

  I’m left standing by the fireplace, heat at my back, the chill of the hall before me.

  64

  After pressing the door shut, I lift the glass of water from the floor and dump its contents down the sink. The merlot bottle chimes against the rim as I pour wine into it. Chimes again. My hands are trembling.

  I drink deep, think deep. I feel exhausted, exhilarated. I ventured outside—walked outside—and survived. I wonder what Dr. Fielding will say. I wonder what I should tell him. Maybe nothing. I frown.

  I know more now, too. The woman is panicking. Ethan is frightened. Jane is . . . well. I don’t know about Jane. But it’s more than I knew before. I feel as though I’ve captured a pawn. I’m the Thinking Machine.

  I drink deeper still. I’m the Drinking Machine.

  I drink until my nerves stop twitching—an hour, by the grandfather clock. I watch the minute hand sweep its face, imagine my veins filling with wine, bold and thick, cooling me, strengthening me. Then I float upstairs. I spy the cat on the landing; he notices me, slinks into the study. I follow him.

  On the desk, my phone lights up. I don’t recognize the number. I set the glass down on the desk. After the third ring, I swipe the screen.

  “Dr. Fox.” The voice is trench-deep. “Detective Little here. We met on Friday, if you remember.”

  I pause, then sit at the desk. Push the glass out of reach. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good, good.” He sounds pleased; I imagine him stretching back in his seat, folding one arm behind his head. “How is the good doctor?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “I was wondering if I’d hear from you before now.”

  I say nothing.

  “Got your number from Morningside and wanted to check in. You doing okay?”

  I just told him I was. “Fine, thanks.”

  “Good, good. Family okay?”

  “Fine. All fine.”

  “Good, good.” Where is this going?

  Then his voice shifts gears. “Here’s the thing: We had a call from your neighbor a little while ago.”

  Of course. Bitch. Well, she warned me. Reliable bitch. I extend my arm, grasp the glass of wine.

  “She says that you followed her to a coffee place down the block.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. “Now, I’m assuming you didn’t choose today to go get yourself a flat white. I’m assuming you didn’t run into her there by coincidence.”

  In spite of myself, I nearly grin.

  “I know it’s been a tough time for you. You’ve had a bad week.” I find myself nodding. He’s very agreeable. Would make a good shrink. “But doing stuff like this isn’t going to help anybody, including you.”

  He hasn’t said her name yet. Will he? “What you said on Friday really upset some people. Just between you and me, Mrs. Russell”—there it is—“seems pretty high-strung.”

  I bet she’s high-strung, I think. She’s impersonating a dead woman.

  “And I don’t think her kid was too happy about it, either.”

  I open my mouth. “I spoke—”

  “So I—” He stops. “What was that?”

  I purse my lips. “Nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He grunts. “I wanted to ask you to just take it easy for a while. Good to hear you’re getting outside.” Is that a joke? “How’s that cat? He still got an attitude?”

  I don’t respond. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “And your tenant?”

  I chew my lip. Downstairs, there’s that stepladder braced against the basement door; belowground, I saw a dead woman’s earring at David’s bedside.

  “Detective.” I grip the phone. I need to hear it once more. “You really don’t believe me?”

  A long silence, then he sighs, deep and rumbly. “I’m sorry, Dr. Fox. I think you believe what you say you saw. I just— I don’t.”

  I wasn’t expecting otherwise. Fine. All fine.

  “You know, if you want to talk to someone ever, we’ve got good counselors here who can help you out. Or just listen.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” I sound stiff.

  Another silence. “Just—take it easy, okay? I’ll let Mrs. Russell know that we’ve talked.”

  I wince. And hang up before he can.

  65

  I sip my wine, grab my phone, stalk into the hall. I want to forget about Little. I want to forget about the Russells.

  The Agora. I’ll check my messages. I walk downstairs, place the glass in the kitchen sink. Moving to the living room, I tap my passcode onto the phone screen.

  Passcode incorrect.

  I furrow my brow. Clumsy fingers. I peck at the screen a second time.

  Passcode incorrect.

  “What?” I ask. The living room has gone dark with dusk; I reach for the lamp, switch it on. Once more, carefully, eyes on hands: 0-2-1-4.

  Passcode incorrect.

  The phone twitches. I’m locked out. I don’t understand.

  When was the last time I tapped in my passcode? I didn’t need it to answer Little’s call just now; I used Skype to dial Boston earlier. My mind is foggy.

  Annoyed, I march back up to the study, to the desktop. Surely I’m not locked out of email as well? I enter the computer password, visit the Gmail home page. My screen name is preloaded into the address field. I type the password slowly.

  Yes—I’m in. The restore-access process for my phone is simple enough; within sixty seconds, a replacement code pings in my inbox. I enter it onto the phone screen, switch it back to 0214.

  Still, what the hell? Maybe the code expired—does that happen? Did I change it? Or was it just fumbling fingers? I chew a nail. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Nor are my motor skills. I eye the wineglass.

  A little batch of messages awaits me in my inbox, one a plea from a Nigerian prince, the remainder dispatches from my Agora crew. I spend an hour replying. Mitzi from Manchester recently switched anxiety medications. Kala88 is engaged. And GrannyLizzie, it seems, squired by her sons, managed to take a few steps outside this afternoon. Me too, I think.

  Past six, and suddenly fatigue avalanches me, buries me. I slump forward, like a beat-up pillow, and rest my forehead against the desk. I need to sleep. I’ll double-dose on temazepam tonight. And tomorrow I can work on Ethan.

  One of my more precocious patients used to begin every session with the words “It’s the strangest thing, but . . .”—and then proceed to describe experiences that were perfectly ordinary. But I feel that way now. It’s the strangest thing. It’s the strangest thing, but what seemed urgent just a moment ago—what’s seemed urgent since Thursday—has shrunk, dwindled, like a flame in the cold. Jane. Ethan. That woman. Even Alistair.

  I’m running on fumes. Grape fumes, I hear Ed crack. Ha-ha.

  I’ll talk to them, too. Tomorrow. Ed. Livvy.

  Monday, November 8

  66

  “Ed.”

  Then a moment later—or maybe an hour:

  “Livvy.”

  My voice was a puff of breath. I could see it, a little spirit floating before my face, ghostly white in the frozen air.

  Somewhere nearby, a chirp, over and over, ceaselessly—a single tone, like the call of
a demented bird.

  Then it stopped.

  My vision swam in a low tide of red. My head throbbed. My ribs ached. My back felt broken. My throat felt seared.

  The airbag was crumpled against the side of my face. The dashboard glowed crimson. The windshield sagged toward me, cracked and slack.

  I frowned. Some process behind my eyes kept rebooting itself, some system glitch, a buzz in the machine.

  I breathed, choked. Heard myself croak with pain. Swiveled my head, felt the top of my skull twist on the ceiling. That was unusual, wasn’t it? And I could taste saliva welling in the roof of my mouth. How was—

  The buzz ceased.

  We were upside down.

  I choked again. My hands flew down, buried themselves in the fabric around my head, as though they could upend the car, push me upright. I heard myself whine, splutter.

  Turned my head farther. And saw Ed, facing away from me, still. Blood seeped from his ear.

  I said his name, or tried to, one breathy syllable in the chill, a little cloud of smoke. My windpipe was sore. The seat belt had drawn tight around my throat.

  I licked my lips. My tongue dipped into a hollow in the upper gum. I’d lost a tooth.

  The seat belt was slicing against my waist, wire-taut. With my right hand I pressed the buckle, pressed harder, gasped as it clicked. The belt slithered from my body and I slumped toward the roof.

  That chirp. The seat-belt alert, stuttering. Then silent.

  Breath fountained from my mouth, red in the dashboard light, as I splayed my hands on the ceiling. Braced them. Pivoted my head.

  Olivia was strapped into the backseat, suspended there, her ponytail dangling. I crooked my neck, squared my shoulder against the ceiling, reached for her cheek. My fingers rattled.

  Her skin was ice.

  My elbow folded; my legs dropped to one side, landed hard on the spider-webbed glass of the sunroof. It crunched beneath me. I scrambled to right myself, knees scuffling, and crawled toward her as my heart knocked against my chest. Seized her shoulders in my hands. Shook.

  Screamed.

  I thrashed. She thrashed with me, her hair swinging.

  “Livvy,” I shouted, my throat flaming, and tasted blood in my mouth, on my lips.

  “Livvy,” I called, and tears shot down my cheeks.

  “Livvy,” I breathed, and her eyes opened.

  My heart failed for an instant.

  She looked at me, inside me, mouthed a single word:

  “Mommy.”

  I jammed my thumb into her seat-belt buckle. The belt released with a hiss, and I cradled her head as she descended, caught her body in my arms, her limbs spilling, jangling against each other like wind chimes. One of her arms felt loose within its sleeve.

  I unrolled her along the sunroof. “Shh,” I told her, even though she hadn’t made a sound, even though her eyes were shut again. She looked like a princess.

  “Hey.” I shook her shoulder. She looked at me once more. “Hey,” I repeated. I tried to smile. My face felt numb.

  I scuttled toward the door, grasped the handle, yanked. Yanked again. Heard the snap of the latch. I pushed against the window, strained my fingers upon the glass. The door swung wide without a sound, gliding into the dark.

  I stretched forward and pressed my hands to the ground outside, felt the burning snow against my palms. Dug my elbows in, steadied my knees, and pulled. Dragged my torso out of the car, flopping onto the frost. It squeaked beneath me. I kept dragging. My hips. My thighs. Knees. Shins. Feet. The cuff around my ankle snagged on a coat hook; I hitched it loose, slid free of the car.

  And rolled onto my back. My spine went electric with pain. I sucked in air. Winced. My head rolled, as though my neck had quit.

  No time. No time. I gathered myself, collected my legs, reassembled them into working order, and knelt by the car. Looked around.

  Looked up. My vision wheeled, reeled.

  The sky was a bowl of stars and space. The moon loomed planet-huge, solar-bright, and the canyon below blazed with shadow and light, crisp as a woodcut. The snowfall had nearly ceased, just a spray of stray flakes floating through the air. It looked like a new world.

  And the sound . . .

  Quiet. Utter, final quiet. Not a breath of wind, not a shift of branches. A silent film, a still photograph. I turned on my knees, heard snow crumpling beneath them.

  Back to earth. The car was pitched forward, its nose bashed against the ground, its rear seesawed slightly upward. I saw its chassis exposed, like the underside of an insect. I shuddered. My spine twitched.

  I dove back through the doorway, hooked my fingers in the down of Olivia’s jacket. And hauled. Hauled her across the sunroof, hauled her past the headrest, hauled her out of the car. Wrapped my arms around her, her little body rag-limp in my arms. Spoke her name. Spoke it again. She opened her eyes.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  I laid her beside the car, then tugged her back in case it should capsize. Her head drifted toward her shoulder; I held it—gently, gently—and turned her face toward the sky again.

  I paused, my lungs working like a bellows. Looked at my baby, an angel in the snow. Touched her wounded arm. She didn’t react. I touched it again, more firmly, and saw a wince warp her face.

  Ed next.

  I crawled inside once more before realizing that there was no way to yank him out through the backseat. I reversed, shuffling my shins backward; cleared the car; reached for the front-door handle. Squeezed. Squeezed again. The lock caught, clicked. The door flapped open.

  There he was, his skin warm red in the woozy ambulance light of the dashboard. I wondered about that light, how the battery had survived the impact, as I released his seat belt. He slouched toward me, unspooling, like a tugged knot. I gripped him under the armpits.

  And dragged him, my head knocking against the gearshift, his body trawling along the ceiling. When we emerged from the car, I saw his face was rinsed in blood.

  I stood, pulled, staggered backward until we were next to Olivia, then rested him beside her. She stirred. He didn’t. I seized his hand, peeled his sleeve back from the wrist, pressed my fingers into the skin. His pulse was flickering.

  We were out of the car, all of us, beneath the sprawl of stars, at the floor of the universe. I heard a steady locomotive chug—my own breath. I was panting. Sweat slid down my sides, slicked my neck.

  I bent an arm behind my back, felt carefully, fingers climbing my spine like a ladder. Between my shoulder blades the vertebrae flamed with pain.

  I inhaled, exhaled. Watched breath spout feebly from Olivia’s mouth, from Ed’s.

  I turned around.

  My eyes scaled what looked like a hundred yards of sheer cliff, blasted fluorescent white in the moonlight. The road lay unseen somewhere overhead, but there was no climbing toward it, no climbing anywhere. We’d crash-landed on a small shelf, a little ledge of rock jutting from the side of the mountain; beyond and below, oblivion. Stars, snow, space. Silence.

  My phone.

  I slapped my pockets—front, back, coat—and then remembered how Ed had clutched it, waved it away from me; how it had spun to the floor, danced there, rattling between my feet, that name blaring on the screen.

  I plunged into the car for the third time, swept the ceiling with my hands, finally found it lodged against the windshield, screen intact. It was a shock to see it so pristine; my husband was bleeding, my daughter was injured, my body was damaged, our SUV was destroyed—but the phone had survived unmarked. A relic from another era, another earth. 10:27 p.m., it read. We’d been off the road for almost a half hour.

  Crouching in the cabin of the car, I slid my thumb across the screen—911—and lifted the phone to my ear, felt it tremble against my cheek.

  Nothing. I frowned.

  I ended the call, retreated from the car, inspected the screen. No Signal. I knelt in the snow. Dialed again.

  Nothing.

&nb
sp; I dialed twice more.

  Nothing. Nothing.

  I stood, stabbed the speakerphone button, thrust my arm into the air. Nothing.

  I circled the car, stumbling in the snow. Dialed again. And again. Four times, eight times, thirteen times. I lost count.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I screamed. It burst from me, scouring my throat, cracking the night like a pane of ice, fading away in a flock of echoes. I screamed until my tongue burned, until my voice gave out.

  Whirled around. Dizzied myself. Hurled the phone to the ground. It sank into the snow. Picked it up, its screen dewy, and flung it down again, farther away. Panic surged through me. I lunged, dug through the frost. My hand closed on it. Shook off the snow, dialed again.

  Nothing.

  I was back with Olivia and Ed; they lay there, side by side, still, luminous beneath the moon.

  A sob kicked its way to my mouth, desperate for air, thrashed past my lips. My knees buckled beneath me, folded like switchblades. I melted to the ground. I crawled between my husband and my daughter. I cried.

  When I awoke, my fingers were cool and blue, curled around the phone. 12:58 a.m. Its battery was drained, just 11 percent remaining. Didn’t matter, I reasoned; I couldn’t call 911, couldn’t call anyone.

  I tried to all the same. Nothing.

  I rotated my head to the left, to the right: Ed and Livvy, on either side of me, their breathing shallow but steady, Ed’s face spackled with dried blood, Olivia’s cheeks plastered with streaks of hair. I cupped her forehead in my hand. Cold. Were we better off sheltering in the car? But what if . . . I didn’t know; what if it rolled? What if it exploded?

  I sat up. Stood up. Looked at the hulk of the car. Surveyed the sky—that ripe moon, that bath of stars. Turned, slowly, toward the mountain.

  As I approached it, I brandished my phone and held it in front of me, like a wand. Drew my thumb up the screen, tapped the flashlight button. Hard light, a tiny star in my hand.