The Woman in the Window(39)

I bleat at him, wheeze at him, lift my head from the pillow, neck straining, drag shallow breaths through my mouth. And with my lungs shrinking, I bristle—how would he know how I am? He’s a cop I’ve just met. A cop—have I ever even met a cop before? The odd traffic ticket, I suppose.

The light strobes before my eyes, faintly, tiger stripes of dark clawed across my vision. His own eyes never leave mine, even as my gaze climbs his face and slips, like a struggling hiker. His pupils are almost absurdly huge. His lips are full, kind.

And as I stare at Little, as my fingers rake the blankets, I find my body relaxing, my chest expanding, my vision clearing. Whatever they put into me has won. I am indeed okay.

“She’s okay,” Little says again. The nurse pats my knuckles. Good girl.

I roll my head back, close my eyes. I feel exhausted. I feel embalmed.

“My neighbor was stabbed,” I whisper. “Her name is Jane Russell.”

I hear Little’s chair complain as he leans toward me. “Did you see who attacked her?”

“No.” I work my eyelids open, like rusty garage doors. Little is hunched over his notepad, his brow grooved with wrinkles. He frowns and nods at the same time. Mixed messages.

“But you saw her bleeding?”

“Yes.” I wish I’d stop slurring. I wish he’d stop interrogating me.

“Had you been drinking?”

A lot. “A little,” I admit. “But that’s . . .” I inhale, and now I feel fresh panic volt through me. “You need to help her. She’s—she could be dead.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” says the nurse, moving toward the door.

As she leaves, Little nods again. “Do you know who would want to hurt your neighbor?”

I swallow. “Her husband.”

He nods some more, frowns some more, shakes his wrist, flips the notepad shut. “Here’s the thing, Anna Fox,” he says, suddenly brisk, all business. “I went to visit the Russells this morning.”

“Is she okay?”

“I’d like you to go back with me to make a statement.”



The doctor is a youngish Hispanic woman so beautiful that I lose my breath again, although that isn’t why she injects me with lorazepam.

“Is there anyone we should contact for you?” she asks.

I’m about to give Ed’s name, then check myself. No point. “No point,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“No one,” I tell her. “I don’t have— I’m fine.” Carefully sculpting each word, as though it’s origami. “But—”

“No family member?” She looks at my wedding ring.

“No,” I say, my right hand stealing over my left. “My husband—I’m not—we’re not together. Anymore.”

“A friend?” I shake my head. Whom could she possibly call? Not David, certainly not Wesley; Bina, maybe, except I really am fine. Jane isn’t.

“What about a doctor?”

“Julian Fielding,” I answer automatically, before I interrupt myself. “No. Not him.”

I watch her exchange glances with the nurse, who then exchanges glances with Little, who forwards the glance to the doctor. It’s a Mexican standoff. I want to giggle. I don’t. Jane.

“As you know, you were unconscious in a park,” the doctor continues, “and the EMTs couldn’t identify you, so they brought you to Morningside. When you came around, you had a panic attack.”

“A big one,” pipes up the nurse.

The doctor nods. “A big one.” She inspects her clipboard. “And it happened again this morning. I understand you’re a doctor?”

“Not a medical doctor,” I tell her.

“What sort of doctor?”

“A psychologist. I work with children.”

“Do you have—”

“A woman’s been stabbed,” I say, my voice surging. The nurse steps back as though I’ve swung a fist. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”

The doctor snaps a glance at Little. “Do you have a history of panic attacks?” she asks me.

And so, with Little attending amiably from his chair and the nurse trembling like a hummingbird, I tell the doctor—tell all of them—about my agoraphobia, my depression, and, yes, my panic disorder; I tell them about my drug regimen, about my ten months indoors, about Dr. Fielding and his aversion therapy. It takes a while, with my voice still swathed in wool; every minute I tip more water down my throat, trickling past my words as they bubble up from within, spill over my lips.

Once I’ve finished, once I’ve sagged back into the pillow, the doctor consults her clipboard for a moment. Nods slowly. “All right,” she says. A brisker nod. “All right.” She looks up. “Let me speak with the detective. Detective, would you—” She gestures toward the door.

Little rises, the chair creaking as he stands. He smiles at me, follows the doctor from the room.

His absence leaves a void. It’s just me and the nurse now. “Have some more water,” she suggests.



They return some minutes later. Or maybe it’s longer than that; there’s no clock in here.

“The detective has offered to escort you back home,” says the doctor. I look at Little; he beams back. “And I’m giving you some Ativan to take later. But we need to make sure that you don’t have an attack before you get there. So the fastest way to do this . . .”