The Woman in the Window(43)

He turns. “Leave all that there,” he says. “Leave the TV on, too. What movie is that?”

“An old thriller.”

“You like thrillers?”

I fidget. The lorazepam must be running dry. “Sure. Why can’t I clean up?”

“Because we’ll want to see exactly what was going on with you when you witnessed the attack on your neighbor.”

“Doesn’t it matter more what was going on with her?”

Little ignores me. “Maybe put that cat somewhere,” he tells me. “Seems like he’s got an attitude. Don’t want him scratching anybody.” He pivots back to the sink, fills a glass with water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated. You’ve had a shock.” He crosses the room, puts it in my hand. There’s something almost tender about it. I half expect him to caress my cheek.

I bring the glass to my lips.

The buzzer rings.





40


“I’ve got Mr. Russell with me,” Detective Norelli announces, unnecessarily.

Her voice is slight, girlish, a bad fit for the high-rise sweater, the bitch-on-wheels leather coat. She sweeps the room with a single glance, then trains a glass-cutting gaze on me. Doesn’t introduce herself. She is Bad Cop, no doubt about it, and with disappointment I realize that Little’s aw-shucks shtick must be just smoke.

Alistair trails her, fresh and crisp in khakis and sweater, although there’s a ridge of flesh drawn bowstring-taut at his throat. Maybe it’s always there. He looks at me, smiles. “Hi,” he says, with faint surprise.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I sway. I’m uneasy. My system is still sluggish, like an engine clotted with sugar; and now my neighbor has just back-footed me with a grin.

“You okay?” Little closes the hall door behind Alistair, moves to my side.

I swirl my head. Yes. No.

He hooks a finger beneath my elbow. “Let’s get you—”

“Ma’am, are you all right?” Norelli’s frowning.

Little raises a hand. “She’s good—she’s good. She’s under sedation.”

My cheeks simmer.

He guides me toward the kitchen alcove, sits me down at the table—the same table where Jane blew through an entire matchbox, where we played sloppy chess and talked about our kids, where she told me to photograph the sunset. The same table where she spoke of Alistair and her past.

Norelli moves to the kitchen window, phone in hand. “Ms. Fox,” she says.

Little interrupts her: “Dr. Fox.”

She glitches, then reboots. “Dr. Fox, I understand from Detective Little that you saw something last night.”

I flick a glance at Alistair, still wallflowered by the hall door.

“I saw my neighbor get stabbed.”

“Who’s your neighbor?” Norelli asks.

“Jane Russell.”

“And you saw this through the window?”

“Yes.”

“Which window?”

I point past her. “That one.”

Norelli follows my finger. She’s got moonless eyes, flat and dark; I watch them scope the Russell house, left to right, as though she’s reading lines of text.

“Did you see who stabbed your neighbor?” Still looking outside.

“No, but I saw her bleeding, and I saw something in her chest.”

“What was in her chest?”

I shift in the chair. “Something silver.” What does it matter?

“Something silver?”

I nod.

Norelli nods, too; turns, looks at me, then past me, into the living room. “Who was with you last night?”

“No one.”

“So that whole setup on the table is yours?”

I shift again. “Yes.”

“Okay, Dr. Fox.” But she’s watching Little. “I’m going to—”

“His wife—” I begin, raising a hand, as Alistair moves toward us.

“Wait a moment.” Norelli steps forward, places her phone on the table in front me. “I’m going to play for you the 911 call you placed at ten thirty-three last night.”

“His wife—”

“I think it answers a lot of questions.” She slashes the screen with one long finger, and a voice blasts my ears, speakerphone-tinny: “911, what is—”

Norelli starts, thumbs the volume control, dials it down.

“—your emergency?”

“My neighbor.” Shrill. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.” It’s me, I know—my words, anyway—but not my voice; I sound slurred, melted.

“Ma’am, slow down.” That drawl. Maddening even now. “What’s your address?”

I look at Alistair, at Little. They’re watching Norelli’s phone.

Norelli is watching me.

“And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

“Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.” I wince. Almost unintelligible.

“What?”

“I said help.” A cough, wet, spluttery. Near tears.

“Help is on the way, ma’am. I need you to calm down. Could you give me your name?”

“Anna Fox.”