The Woman in the Window(35)

“Hold your breath.” I turn to the television. Bacall again, almost purring. “Cross your fingers,” I say along with her. I face the window again, Nikon at my eye.

Once more Jane enters the frame—but walking slowly, strangely. Staggering. A dark patch of crimson has stained the top of her blouse; even as I watch, it spreads to her stomach. Her hands scrabble at her chest. Something slender and silver has lodged there, like a hilt.

It is a hilt.

Now the blood surges up to her throat, washes it with red. Her mouth has gone slack; her brow is creased, as though she’s confused. She grips the hilt with one hand, limply. With the other she reaches out, her finger aimed toward the window.

She’s pointing straight at me.

I drop the camera, feel it rappel down my leg, the strap snagging in my fingers.

Jane’s arm folds against the window. Her eyes are wide, pleading. She mouths something I can’t hear, can’t read. And then, as time slows to a near halt, she presses her hand to the window and keels to one side, wiping a bold smear of blood across the glass.

I’m stricken where I stand.

I can’t move.

The room is still. The world is still.

And then, as time lurches forward, I move.

I spin, shake the camera strap loose, lunge across the room, my hip butting into the kitchen table. I stumble, reach the counter, wrench the landline from its dock. Press the power button.

Nothing. Dead.

Somewhere I remember David telling me as much. It isn’t even plugged— David.

I drop the phone and race to the basement door, yell his name, yell it, yell it. Seize the doorknob, pull hard.

Nothing.

Run to the stairs. Up, up—crashing against the wall—once—twice—round the landing, trip on the final step, half crawl to the study.

Check the desk. No phone. I swear I left it here.

Skype.

My hands jumping, I reach for the mouse, streak it over the desk. Double-click on Skype, double-click again, hear the sweep of the welcome tone, bash 911 into the dial pad.

A red triangle flashes on the screen. no emergency calls. skype is not a telephone replacement service.

“Fuck you, Skype,” I shout.

Flee the study, rush the steps, whip around the landing, crash through the bedroom door.

Near bedside table: wineglass, picture frame. Far bedside table: two books, reading glasses.

My bed—is it in my bed again? I grab the duvet with both hands, snap it hard.

The phone launches into the air like a missile.

I pounce before it lands, knock it beneath the armchair, reach for it, grip it tight in my hand, swipe it on. Tap in the passcode. It trembles. Wrong code. Tap it in again, my fingers slipping.

The home screen appears. I stab the Phone icon, stab the Keypad icon, dial 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My neighbor,” I say, braking, motionless for the first time in ninety seconds. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.”

“Ma’am, slow down.” He’s speaking slowly, as if by example, in a languid Georgia drawl. It’s jarring. “What’s your address?”

I squeeze it from my brain, from my throat, stammering. Through the window I can see the Russells’ cheery parlor, that arc of blood smeared across their window like war paint.

He repeats the address.

“Yes. Yes.”

“And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

“Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said help.” Why isn’t he helping? I gulp air, cough, gulp once more.

“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.”

“Are you with her now?”

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

“Anna, did . . .”

He’s pouring words in my ear like syrup—what kind of emergency dispatch service hires a slow talker?—when I feel a brush at my ankle. I look down to find Punch rubbing his flank against me.

“What?”

“Did you stab your neighbor?”

In the dark of the window I can see my mouth drop open. “No.”

“All right.”

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

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

I’m squinting through the glass, peering into the Russells’ parlor—it’s a story below me now, but I see nothing on the floor except a floral-print rug. I brace myself on my toes, strain my neck.

Still nothing.

And then it appears: a hand at the windowsill.

Creeping upward, like a soldier edging his head above the trench. I watch the fingers swipe at the glass, drag lines through the blood.

She’s still alive.

“Ma’am? Do you know who—”

But already I’m bolting from the room, the phone dropped, the cat mewling behind me.





33


The umbrella stands in its corner, cowering against the wall, as if afraid of some approaching threat. I grip the handle by the crook, cool and smooth in my damp palm.