The Woman in the Window

by A. J. Finn

  “I’ll call the police,” I whisper.

  He snorts. “Go ahead. Here’s your phone.” He picks it up off the counter, tosses it in his hand, once, twice.

  Yes—I left it in the kitchen. And for an instant I wait for him to dash it to the floor, to hurl it against the wall; but instead he sets it back down beside the key. “The police think you’re a joke,” he says, taking a step toward me. I raise the box cutter.

  “Oh!” He’s grinning. “Oh! What do you want to do with that?” Again he steps forward.

  This time so do I.

  “Get out of my house,” I tell him. My arm wobbles; my hand is shaking. The blade gleams in the light, a little slice of silver.

  He’s stopped moving, stopped breathing.

  “Who was that woman?” I ask.

  And suddenly his hand lunges for my throat, seizes it. Drives me backward, so that I thud against the wall, my head cracking hard. I cry out. His fingers press into my skin.

  “You’re delusional.” His breath, hot with liquor, flames against my face, stings my eyes. “Stay away from my son. Stay away from my wife.”

  I’m gagging, rasping. With one hand I claw at his fingers, rake my nails across his wrist.

  With the other I swing the blade toward his side.

  But my aim sails wide, and the box cutter clatters to the floor. He steps on it, squeezes my throat. I croak.

  “Stay the fuck away from all of us,” he breathes.

  A moment passes.

  Another.

  My vision runs. Tears are leaking down my cheeks.

  I’m losing conscious—

  He releases my neck. I slide to the floor, gasping.

  Now he towers above me. He drags his foot back sharply, sends the box cutter skidding into a corner.

  “Remember this,” he says, panting, his voice ragged. I can’t look up at him.

  But I hear him say one more word, small, breakably soft: “Please.”

  Silence. I watch his booted feet turn, step away.

  As he passes the island, he sweeps his arm across it. A wave of glass crashes to the floor, splintering, smashing. I try to scream. My throat whistles.

  He walks to the hall door, rips it open. I hear the front door unlatch, slam shut.

  I hold myself, one hand touching my neck, the other clutching my body. I’m sobbing.

  And when Punch limps through the doorway and gingerly licks my hand, I only sob harder.

  Sunday, November 14

  89

  I inspect my throat in the bathroom mirror. Five bruises, jewel-blue, a dark clasp around my neck.

  I glance down at Punch, curled on the tile floor, nursing his lame paw. What a pair.

  I won’t report last night to the police. Won’t and can’t. There’s proof, of course, actual fingerprints on my skin, but they’ll want to know why Alistair was here in the first place, and the truth is . . . well. I invited a teenager whose family I stalked and harassed to hang out in my basement. You know, as a replacement for my dead child and my dead husband. It wouldn’t look good.

  “Wouldn’t look good,” I say, testing my voice. It sounds weak, withered.

  I leave the bathroom and descend the stairs. Deep in the pocket of my robe, my phone bumps against my thigh.

  I sweep up the glass, the broken bodies of bottles and goblets; pluck splinters and slivers of the stuff from the floor, dump them into a trash bag. Try not to think about him seizing me, squeezing me. Standing over me. Stalking through the bright ruins underfoot.

  Beneath my slippers, the white birch sparkles like a beach.

  At the kitchen table I fiddle with the box cutter, listen to the snick of the blade as it glides out and in.

  I look across the park. The Russell house looks back at me, its windows vacant. I wonder where they are. I wonder where he is.

  I should have aimed better. Should have swung harder. I imagine the razor slicing through his jacket, ripping his skin.

  And then you would have had a wounded man in your house.

  I set the box cutter down and bring a mug to my lips. There’s no tea in the cupboard—Ed never cared for it, and I preferred drinking other things—so I sip warm water spiked with salt. It burns my throat. I wince.

  I look across the park again. Then I get up, draw the blinds tight across the window.

  Last night seems like a fever dream, a curl of smoke. The movie screen on my ceiling. The bright cry of glass. The void of the closet. The coiling staircase. And him, standing there, calling for me, waiting for me.

  I touch my throat. Don’t tell me that it was a dream, that he never came here. Where—yes: Gaslight again.

  Because it was no dream. (This is no dream! This is really happening!—Mia Farrow, Rosemary’s Baby.) My home was invaded. My property was destroyed. I was threatened. I was assaulted. And I can’t do anything about it.

  I can’t do anything about anything. Now I know Alistair to be violent; now I know what he’s capable of. But he’s right: The police won’t listen. Dr. Fielding thinks I’m delusional. I told Bina, promised her, that I’d moved on. Ethan is out of reach. Wesley is gone. There’s no one.

  “Guess who?”

  Her this time, faint but clear.

  No. I shake my head.

  Who was that woman? I’d asked Alistair.

  If she existed.

  I don’t know. I’ll never know.

  90

  I spend the rest of the morning in bed, then the afternoon, trying not to cry, trying not to think—about last night, about today, about tomorrow, about Jane.

  Beyond the window, clouds are brewing, their bellies low and dark. I tap the weather app on my phone. Thunderstorms later tonight.

  A somber dusk falls. I draw the curtains and unfold my laptop, place it beside me; it warms the sheets as I stream Charade.

  “What do I have to do to satisfy you?” demands Cary Grant. “Become the next victim?”

  I shudder.

  By the time the films ends I’m half-asleep. The exit music swells; I flap a hand at the laptop, bat it shut.

  Sometime later I awake to the buzzing of my phone.

  Emergency Alert

  Flood warning this area till 3:00 a.m. EDT. Avoid flood areas. Check local media.—NWS

  Vigilant, that National Weather Service. I do plan to avoid flood areas. I unstopper a yawn, haul myself out of bed, shuffle to the curtains.

  Darkness outside. No rain yet, but the sky has sunk, clouds dropped lower; the sycamore branches are stirring. I can hear the wind. I wrap one arm around myself.

  Across the park, a light sparks in the Russells’ kitchen: him, crossing to the refrigerator. He opens it, removes a bottle—beer, I think. I wonder if he’s getting drunk again.

  My fingers idle at my throat. My bruises ache.

  I slide the curtain shut and return to bed. Clear the message from my phone, check the time: 9:29 p.m. I could watch another film. I could get a drink.

  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.

  91

  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.

  92

  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.

  93

  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.

  I say nothing, merely gaze at him. My heart is going wild, like a trapped fly. I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling.

  He whispers.

  “What?”

  Clears his throat. “When did you find that?”

  “Tonight, right before I called you.”

  A nod.

  “Who is she?”

  He’s still looking at the phone. For a moment I thin
k he hasn’t heard me.

  “Who is—”

  “She’s my mother.”

  I frown. “No, the detective said that your mother—”

  “My real mother. Biological.”

  I stare. “You’re adopted?”

  He says nothing, just nods again, eyes cast low.

  “So . . .” I lean forward, rake my hands through my hair. “So . . .”

  “She— I don’t even know how to begin.”

  I close my eyes, push my confusion aside. He needs to be guided. This I can do.

  I angle my body toward him, smooth the robe along my thighs, look at him. “When were you adopted?” I ask.

  He sighs, sits back, the cushions exhaling beneath his weight. “When I was five.”

  “Why so late?”

  “Because she was an—she was on drugs.” Halting, like a foal taking its first steps. I wonder how many times he’s said it before. “She was on drugs and really young.”

  That explains why Jane looked so youthful.

  “So I went to live with my mom and dad.” I study his face, the tip of tongue glossing his lips, the shimmer of rain at his temples.

  “Where did you grow up?” I ask.

  “Before Boston?”

  “Yes.”

  “San Francisco. That’s where my parents got me.”

  I resist the impulse to touch him. Instead I take the phone from his hand, set it on the table.

  “She found me once,” he continues. “When I was twelve. She found us in Boston. She showed up at the house and asked my dad if she could see me. He said no.”

  “So you didn’t get to talk to her?”

  “No.” He pauses, breathes deep, his eyes bright. “My parents were so mad. They told me that if she ever tried to see me again—that I should tell them.”

  I nod, sit back. He’s speaking freely now.

  “And then we moved here.”

  “But your father lost his job.”

  “Yeah.” Wary.

  “Why was that?”

  He fidgets. “Something with his boss’s wife. I don’t know. They were screaming about it a lot.”