The Woman in the Window(76)

Between us, Norelli speaks. “Just like you could’ve taken that photo and sent it to yourself and we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”

I reel back, as though I’ve been punched. “I—”

“You okay there, Dr. Fox?” Little, stepping toward me.

The robe drops from my hand again, slithers to the floor.

I’m swaying. The room revolves around me like a carousel. Alistair glowers; Norelli’s eyes have gone dark; Little’s hand hovers over my shoulder. Ethan hangs back, the cat still draped over his arm. They whirl past me, all of them; no one to cling to, no ground to stand on. “I didn’t draw this picture. Jane drew it. Right here.” I wag my fingers toward the kitchen. “And I didn’t take that photo. I couldn’t have taken it. I’m— Something is happening, and you’re not helping.” I can’t put it any other way. I try to seize the room; it slips from my grip. I fumble toward Ethan, reach for him, clasp his shoulder with my shaking hand.

“Stay away from him,” Alistair explodes, but I look into Ethan’s eyes, raise my voice: “Something is happening.”

“What’s happening?”

We all turn as one.

“Front door was open,” says David.





73


He stands framed in the doorway, hands thrust in his pockets, a battered bag slung over one shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asks again as I release my grip on Ethan.

Norelli uncrosses her arms. “Who are you?”

David crosses his in turn. “I live downstairs.”

“So,” says Little, “you’re the famous David.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“You got a last name, David?”

“Most people do.”

“Winters,” I say, dredging it up from the depths of my brain.

David ignores me. “Who are you people?”

“Police,” Norelli answers. “I’m Detective Norelli, this is Detective Little.”

David angles his jaw toward Alistair. “Him I know.”

Alistair nods. “Maybe you can explain what’s wrong with this woman.”

“Who says there’s anything wrong with her?”

Gratitude wells within me. I feel my lungs fill. Someone’s on my side.

Then I remember who that someone is.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Winters?” asks Little.

“Connecticut. On a job.” He cracks his jaw. “Why are you asking?”

“Someone took a picture of Dr. Fox in her sleep. Around two a.m. Then emailed it to her.”

David’s eyes flicker. “That’s messed up.” He looks at me. “Someone broke in?”

Little doesn’t let me answer. “Can anyone confirm you were in Connecticut last night?”

David swings one foot in front of the other. “Lady I was with.”

“Who might that have been?”

“Didn’t get her last name.”

“She have a phone number?”

“Don’t most people?”

“We’re going to need that number,” says Little.

“He’s the only one who could have taken that picture,” I insist.

A beat. David’s brow creases. “What?”

Looking at him, into those depthless eyes, I feel myself waver. “Did you take that picture?”

He sneers. “You think I came up here and—”

“No one thinks that,” Norelli says.

“I do,” I tell her.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” David sounds almost bored. He offers his phone to Norelli. “Here. Call her. Name’s Elizabeth.” Norelli steps toward the living room.

I can’t take another word without a drink. I leave Little’s side, head for the kitchen; behind me I hear his voice.

“Dr. Fox says she saw a woman get assaulted across the way. In Mr. Russell’s house. Do you know anything about this?”

“No. That why she asked me about a scream that time?” I don’t turn around; I’m already tipping wine into a tumbler. “Like I said, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Of course you didn’t,” says Alistair.

I spin to face them, the glass in my hand. “But Ethan said—”

“Ethan, get the hell out of here,” Alistair shouts. “How many times—”

“Calm down, Mr. Russell. Dr. Fox, I really don’t recommend that right now,” says Little, waving a finger at me. I set the tumbler on the counter, but keep my hand wrapped around it. I feel defiant.

He turns back to David. “Have you seen anything unusual in the house across the park?”

“His house?” asks David, glancing at Alistair, who bristles.

“This is—” he begins.

“No, I haven’t seen anything.” David’s bag is slipping down his shoulder; he straightens, jostles it back in place. “Haven’t been looking.”

Little nods. “Uh-huh. And have you met Mrs. Russell?”

“No.”

“How do you know Mr. Russell?”

“I hired him—” Alistair tries, but Little shows him his palm.