please the eye.” Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight. I’ve devised my own reading syllabus. No more long-distance book club for me.
It does please the eye. Likewise the street below, paved with white, high wattage in the sunshine. Fourteen inches dropped on the city this morning. I watched for hours from my bedroom window, saw the snow tumbling thick, frosting the sidewalks, carpeting doorsteps, piling high in flower boxes. Sometime after ten the four Grays streamed from their house in a happy herd; they shrieked amid the flurries, lurched through the drifts and down the block, out of sight. And across the road Rita Miller emerged on her front stoop to marvel at the weather, wrapped in a robe, a mug in one hand. Her husband appeared behind her, circled her in his arms, hooked his chin over her shoulder. She kissed him on the cheek.
I learned her real name, by the way—Little told me, once he’d interviewed the neighbors. It’s Sue. Disappointing.
The park is a field of snow, so clean it sparkles. Beyond it, windows shuttered, hunching beneath that dazzled sky, is what the more frantic newspapers have dubbed killer teen’s $4m house! It cost less, I know, but I guess $3.45m! doesn’t sound as sexy.
It’s empty now. Has been for weeks. Little visited me at home a second time that morning, after the police arrived, after the EMTs had removed the body. His body. Alistair Russell was arrested, the detective said, charged with accessory to murder; he’d confessed immediately, as soon as he heard about his son. It happened just as Ethan described it, he admitted. Apparently Alistair broke down; Jane was the tough one. I wonder what she knew. I wonder if she knew.
“I owe you an apology,” Little muttered, shaking his head. “And Val—man, she really owes you one.”
I didn’t disagree.
He dropped by the next day, too. By that point reporters were knocking on my door, leaning on my buzzer. I ignored them. If nothing else, over the past year I’ve gotten good at ignoring the outside world.
“How you doing, Anna Fox?” asked Little. “And this must be the famous psychiatrist.”
Dr. Fielding had followed me from the library. Now he stood at my side, gawking at the detective, at the sheer scale of the man. “Glad she’s got you, sir,” said Little, pumping his hand.
“I am, too,” Dr. Fielding replied.
And so am I. The past six weeks have stabilized me, clarified me. The skylight’s repaired, for one thing. A professional cleaner swung by, spit-polished the house. And I’m dosing properly, drinking less. Drinking not at all, in fact, thanks in part to a tattooed miracle worker named Pam. “I’ve dealt with all kinds of people, in all kinds of situations,” she told me on her first visit.
“This might be a new one,” I said.
I tried to apologize to David—called him at least a dozen times, but he never answered. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he’s safe. I found his earbuds coiled beneath the bed in the basement. I took them upstairs, tucked them into a drawer. In case he calls back.
And a few weeks ago I rejoined the Agora. They’re my tribe; they’re a sort of family. I will promote healing and well-being.
I’ve been resisting Ed and Livvy. Not all the time, not fully; some nights, when I hear them, I murmur back. But the conversations are over.
100
“Come on.”
Bina’s hand is dry. My own is not.
“Come on, come on.”
She’s yanked the garden door open. A shivering wind blows in.
“You did this on a roof in the rain.”
But that was different. I was fighting for my life.
“This is your garden. In the sunshine.”
True.
“And you’ve got your snow boots on.”
Also true. I found them in the utility closet. I hadn’t worn them since that night in Vermont.
“So what are you waiting for?”
Nothing—not anymore. I’ve waited for my family to return; they won’t. I’ve waited for my depression to lift; it wouldn’t, not without my help.
I’ve waited to rejoin the world. Now is the time.
Now, when the sun is blasting my house. Now, when I’m clearheaded, clear-eyed. Now, as Bina leads me to the door, to the top of the stairs.
She’s right: I did this on a roof in the rain. I was fighting for my life. So I must not want to die.
And if I don’t want to die, I’ve got to start living.
What are you waiting for?
One, two, three, four.
She releases my hand and walks into the garden, tracking footprints in the snow. She turns, beckons me.
“Come on.”
I close my eyes.
And I open them.
And I step into the light.
Acknowledgments
Jennifer Joel, my friend, agent, and invaluable guide;
Felicity Blunt, for working wonders;
Jake Smith-Bosanquet and Alice Dill, who gave me the world;
the teams at ICM and Curtis Brown.
Jennifer Brehl and Julia Wisdom, my clear-eyed, bighearted champions;
the teams at Morrow and Harper;
my international publishers, with gratitude.
Josie Freedman, Greg Mooradian, Elizabeth Gabler, and Drew Reed.
Hope Brooks, the astute first reader and tireless cheerleader;