The Woman in the Window(22)

“Looks as though you still do.”

That deserves a smirk. “Fair enough. But I mean outdoor photography. I enjoyed it.”

“Sort of Humans of New York stuff?”

“More like nature photography.”

“In New York City?”

“In New England. We used to go there sometimes.”

Jane turns to the window. “Look at that,” she says, pointing west, and I do: a pulpy sunset, the dregs of dusk, buildings paper-cut against the glow. A bird circles nearby. “That’s nature, isn’t it?”

“Technically. Some of it. But I mean—”

“The world is a beautiful place,” she insists, and she’s serious; her gaze is even, her voice level. Her eyes catch mine, hold them. “Don’t forget that.” She reclines, mashing her cigarette into the hollow of the bowl. “And don’t miss it.”

I fish my phone from my pocket, aim it at the glass, snap a shot. I look at Jane.

“Attagirl,” she growls.





19


I pour her into the front hall a little past six. “I’ve got very important things to do,” she informs me.

“So do I,” I reply.

Two and a half hours. When did I last speak to someone, anyone, for two and a half hours? I cast my mind back, like a fishing line, across months, across seasons. Nothing. No one. Not since my first meeting with Dr. Fielding, long ago in midwinter—and even then I could only talk for so long; my windpipe was still damaged.

I feel young again, almost giddy. Maybe it’s the wine, but I suspect not. Dear diary, today I made a friend.



Later that evening, I’m drowsing through Rebecca when the buzzer rings.

I shed my blanket, straggle to the door. “Why don’t you go?” Judith Anderson sneers behind me. “Why don’t you leave Manderley?”

I check the intercom monitor. A tall man, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with a bold widow’s peak. It takes me a moment—I’m used to seeing him in living color—but then I recognize Alistair Russell.

“Now what might you be after?” I say, or think. I think I say it. Definitely still drunk. I shouldn’t have popped those pills before, either.

I press the buzzer. The latch clacks; the door groans; I wait for it to shut.

When I open the hall door, he’s standing there, pale and luminous in the dark. Smiling. Strong teeth bolting from strong gums. Clear eyes, crow’s feet raking the edges.

“Alistair Russell,” he says. “We live in two-oh-seven, across the park.”

“Come in.” I extend a hand. “I’m Anna Fox.”

He waves away my hand, stays put.

“I really don’t want to intrude—and I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of something. Movie night?”

I nod.

He smiles again, bright as a Christmas storefront. “I just wanted to know if you’d had any visitors this evening?”

I frown. Before I can answer, an explosion booms behind me—the shipwreck scene. “Ship ashore!” the coastliners wail. “Everybody down to the bay!” Much hubbub.

I return to the sofa, pause the film. When I face him again, Alistair has taken a step into the room. Bathed in white light, shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, he looks like a cadaver. Behind him the door yawns in the wall, a dark mouth.

“Would you mind closing that?” He does so. “Thanks,” I say, and the word slides off my tongue: I’m slurring.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, thanks, I’m all right.”

“I meant water,” I clarify.

He shakes his head politely. “Have you had any visitors tonight?” he repeats.

Well, Jane warned me. He doesn’t look like the controlling type, all beady eyes and thin lips; he’s more a jovial lion-in-autumn sort, with his peppery beard, his hairline in rapid retreat. I imagine him and Ed getting on, laddishly, hail-fellow-well-mettishly, slinging back whiskey and swapping war stories. But appearances, et cetera.

It’s none of his business, of course. Still, I don’t want to look defensive. “I’ve been alone all night,” I tell him. “I’m in the middle of a movie marathon.”

“What’s that?”

“Rebecca. One of my favorites. Are you—”

Then I see that he’s looking past me, dark brow furrowed. I turn.

The chess set.

I’ve filed the glasses neatly in the dishwasher, scrubbed the bowl in the sink, but the chessboard is still there, littered with the living and the dead, Jane’s fallen king rolled to one side.

I turn back to Alistair.

“Oh, that. My tenant likes to play chess,” I explain. Casual.

He looks at me, squints. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Usually this isn’t a challenge for me, not after sixteen years spent living in other people’s heads; but perhaps I’m out of practice. Or else it’s the drink. And the drugs.

“Do you play?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “Not in a long time,” he says. “Is it just you and your tenant here?”

“No, I—yes. I’m separated from my husband. Our daughter is with him.”