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 . . .”
I know the fastest way to do this. And the nurse is already brandishing her needle.
37
“We thought it was a prank,” he explains. “Well, they did. I’m supposed to say we—or I guess we’re supposed to say we—because we are all working together. You know, ‘as a team.’ For the common good. Or something. Words to that effect.” He accelerates. “But I wasn’t there. So I didn’t think it was a prank. I didn’t know about it. If you follow me.”
I don’t.
We’re sliding down the avenue in his unmarked sedan; hazy afternoon sun blinks through the windows like a stone skipping across a pond. My head bumps against the glass, my face