The Woman in the Window

by A. J. Finn

  I feel fit for fight, ready to face the day. Ready for a glass of wine. Just one.

  I journey downstairs, visiting each room I pass, hiking up the blinds, pulling back the curtains. The house is flooded with light.

  In the kitchen I pour myself a few fingers of merlot. (“Only Scotch is measured in fingers,” I can hear Ed say. I push him away, pour another finger.)

  Now: Vertigo, round two. I settle into the sofa, skip back to the beginning, to that lethal lunge-and-plunge rooftop sequence. Jimmy Stewart rises into frame, scaling a ladder. I’ve spent a lot of time with him lately.

  An hour later, during my third glass:

  “He was prepared to take his wife to an institution,” intones the court official, presiding over the inquest, “where her mental health would have been in the hands of qualified specialists.” I fidget, get up to refresh my drink.

  This afternoon, I’ve decided, I’ll play some chess, check in on my classic-film website, maybe clean the house—the upstairs rooms are powdery with dust. Under no circumstances will I watch my neighbors.

  Not even the Russells.

  Especially not the Russells.

  Standing at the kitchen window, I don’t even look at their house. I turn my back on it, return to the sofa, lie down.

  A few moments pass.

  “It is a pity that knowing her suicidal tendencies . . .”

  I slide a glance at the buffet of pills on the tabletop. Then I sit up, plant my feet on the rug, and sweep them into one hand. A little mound in my fist.

  “The jury finds that Madeleine Elster committed suicide while of unsound mind.”

  You’re wrong, I think. That’s not what happened.

  I drop the pills, one by one, into their canisters. Screw the lids tight.

  As I sit back, I find myself wondering when Ethan will arrive. Maybe he’ll want to chat some more.

  “This was as far as I could get,” says Jimmy mournfully.

  “As far as I could get,” I echo.

  Another hour has passed; western light slants into the kitchen. By now I’m pretty buzzed. The cat limps into the room; he whines when I inspect his paw.

  I frown. Have I thought about the veterinarian even once this year? “Irresponsible of me,” I tell Punch.

  He blinks, nestles between my legs.

  On-screen, Jimmy is forcing Kim Novak up the bell tower. “I couldn’t follow her—God knows I tried,” he cries, clutching Kim by the shoulders. “One doesn’t often get a second chance. I want to stop being haunted.”

  “I want to stop being haunted,” I say. I close my eyes, say it again. Stroke the cat. Reach for my glass.

  “And she was the one who died, not you. The real wife,” shouts Jimmy. His hands are on her throat. “You were the copy. You were the counterfeit.”

  Something chimes in my brain, like a radar ping. A gentle tone, high and remote, soft, but it distracts me.

  Only briefly, though. I lean back, sip my wine.

  A nun, a scream, a tolling bell, and the film ends. “That’s how I wanna go,” I inform the cat.

  I scrape myself off the sofa, deposit Punch on the floor; he complains. Bring my glass to the sink. Must start keeping the house orderly. Ethan might want to spend time here—I can’t go all Havisham. (Another Christine Gray book-club pick. I should find out what they’re reading these days. No harm in that, surely.)

  Upstairs, in the study, I visit my chess forum. Two hours go by, and night drops outside; I win three straight matches. Time to celebrate. I fetch a bottle of merlot from the kitchen—I play best when well oiled—and pour as I ascend the stairs, blotting the rattan with wine. I’ll sponge it down later.

  Two more hours, two more victories. Unstoppable me. I drain the last of the bottle into my glass. I’ve drunk more than I meant to, but I’ll be better tomorrow.

  As my sixth game kicks off, I think about the past two weeks, the fever that seized me. It felt like hypnosis, like Gene Tierney in Whirlpool; it felt like insanity, like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight. I did things I can’t remember. I didn’t do things I can remember. The clinician in me rubs her hands together: A genuine dissociative episode? Dr. Fielding will—

  Dammit.

  I’ve sacrificed the queen by accident—mistook it for a bishop. I swear, detonate an F-bomb. It’s been days since I last cursed. I chew on the word, savor it.

  Still, though. That queen. Rook&Roll pounces, of course, claims her.

  WTF??? he messages me. Bad move lol!!!

  Thought it was another piece, I explain, and lift the glass to my mouth.

  And then I freeze.

  84

  What if . . .

  Think.

  It curls away from me, like blood in water.

  I grip the glass.

  What if . . .

  No.

  Yes.

  What if:

  Jane—the woman I knew as Jane—was never Jane at all?

  . . . No.

  . . . Yes.

  What if:

  What if she had been someone else altogether?

  This is what Little told me. No—it’s half of what Little told me. He said that the woman in number 207, the woman with the sleek haircut and slender hips, was definitely, demonstrably Jane Russell. Fine. Accepted.

  But what if the woman I met, or thought I met, was in fact real—just another person posing as Jane? A piece I mistook for another piece? A bishop I confused with a queen?

  What if she was the copy—the one who died? What if she was the counterfeit?

  The glass has drifted to my lips again. I set it on the desk, push it away.

  Why, though?

  Think. Assume she was real. Yes: Overrule Little, overrule logic, and assume I was right all along—or mostly right. She was real. She was here. She was there, in their house. Why would the Russells—why did they—deny her existence? They could have plausibly maintained that she wasn’t Jane, but they went a step further.

  And how could she know so much about them? And why did she pretend to be someone else, pretend to be Jane?

  “Who could she have been?” asks Ed.

  No. Stop it.

  I stand, walk toward the window. Lift my eyes to the Russell house—that house. Alistair and Jane stand in the kitchen, talking; he clasps a laptop in one hand, her arms are folded across her chest. Let them look back, I think. In the dark of the study, I feel safe. I feel secret.

  Movement in the corner of my eye. I flick a glance upstairs, to Ethan’s bedroom.

  He’s at his window, just a narrow shadow against the lamplight behind him. Both hands are pressed against the glass, as though he’s straining to see through it. After a moment, he raises one hand. Waves at me.

  My pulse quickens. I wave back, slowly.

  Next move.

  85

  Bina answers on the first ring.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—”

  “Your doctor called me. He’s really worried about you.”

  “I know.” I’m seated on the stairs, in a weak bath of moonlight. There’s a damp patch by my foot where I spilled wine earlier. Must sponge that.

  “He says he’s been trying to reach you.”

  “He has. I’m fine. Tell him I’m fine. Listen—”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “You sound—you’re slurring.”

  “No. I was just asleep. Listen, I was thinking—”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  I ignore this. “I’ve been thinking about things.”

  “What things?” she asks, warily.

  “The people across the park. That woman.”

  “Oh, Anna.” She sighs. “This—I wanted to talk to you about it on Thursday, but you wouldn’t even let me in.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But—”

  “That woman didn’t even exist.”

  “No, I just can’t prove that she exists. Existed.”

  �
�Anna. This is insane. It’s over.”

  I’m silent.

  “There’s nothing to prove.” Forceful, almost angry—I’ve never heard her sound like this. “I don’t know what you were thinking, or what was . . . happening to you, but it’s over. You’re making a mess of your life.”

  I listen to her breathe.

  “The longer you keep this up, the longer it’ll take to heal.”

  Silence.

  “You’re right.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  “Please tell me you’re not going to do anything crazy.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I need you to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “I need you to say that this was all in your head.”

  “This was all in my head.”

  Quiet.

  “Bina, you’re right. I’m sorry. It was just—an aftershock, or something. Like when neurons continue firing after death.”

  “Well,” she says, her voice warming, “I don’t know about that.”

  “Sorry. The point is, I’m not going to do anything crazy.”

  “And you promise.”

  “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:
<
br />   “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.

  “I’ve been patient,” he repeats. “I’ve put up with a lot.” He sniffs, selects a tumbler, rolls it between his palms. “We all have, but especially me.” Now I can see him more clearly; his jacket is zippered to the collar, and he’s wearing dark gloves. My throat tightens.

  Still I don’t respond. Instead I move to the light switch, reach for it.

  Glass explodes inches from my outstretched hand. I jump back. “Keep the fucking lights off,” he barks.

  I stand still, my fingers wrapped around the doorframe.

  “Someone should’ve warned us about you.” He’s shaking his head, laughing.

  I swallow. His laugh gutters, dies.

  “You gave my son the key to your apartment.” He holds it up. “I’m returning it.” The key chinks as he drops it on the island. “Even if you weren’t out of your . . . goddamn mind, I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman.”