russell moves to atkinson, the headline explains. His LinkedIn profile features the same photograph. A portrait in a Dartmouth alumni newsletter, hoisting a glass at a fundraiser.
But no Jane.
Even stranger: no Ethan. He isn’t on Facebook—or Foursquare, or anywhere—and Google yields nothing beyond assorted links to a photographer by the same name.
“Aren’t most kids on Facebook?” Bina asks.
“His dad won’t let him. He doesn’t even have a cell phone.” I roll one sagging sleeve up my arm. “And he’s homeschooled. He probably doesn’t know many people here. Probably doesn’t know anyone.”
“Someone must know his mother, though,” she says. “Someone in Boston, or . . . just someone.” She walks to the window. “Wouldn’t there be photographs? Weren’t the police at their house today?”
I consider this. “For all we know, they could have photographs of this other woman. Alistair could’ve just shown them anything, told them anything. They’re not going to search their house. They made that very clear.”
She nods, turns, looks at the Russell house. “The blinds are down,” she says.
“What?” I join her at the window and see it for myself: the kitchen, the parlor, Ethan’s bedroom—each one shuttered.
The house has closed its eyes. Screwed them shut.
“See?” I tell her. “They don’t want me looking in anymore.”
“I don’t blame them.”
“They’re being careful. Doesn’t that prove it?”
“It’s suspicious, yes.” She tilts her head. “Do they close the blinds often?”
“Never. Never. It’s been like a goldfish bowl.”
She hesitates. “Do you think . . . do you think you might be, you know—in danger?”
This hadn’t occurred me. “Why?” I ask slowly.
“Because if what you saw really happened—”
I flinch. “It did.”
“—then you’re, you know, a witness.”
I draw a breath, then another.
“Will you please stay the night?”
Her brows lift. “This is a come-on.”
“I’ll pay you.”
She looks at me half-lidded. “It’s not that. I’ve got an early day tomorrow, and all my things are back—”
Flushing the dark around it, dawning on a silk-fine loop of chain. A blouse, white as a ghost. A pair of shoulders, gilt with light. A line of neck. A hand, the fingers playing at the throbbing little heart.
And above it, a face: Jane. The real Jane, radiant. Watching me. Smiling.
I smile back.
And now a pane of glass slides in front of her. She presses a hand to it, prints it with tiny maps of her fingertips.
And behind her, suddenly, the darkness lifts on a scene: the love seat, raked with white and red lines; twin lamps, now bursting into light; the carpet, a garden in bloom.
Jane looks down at the locket, fingers it tenderly. At her luminous shirt. At the inkblot of blood spreading, swelling, lapping at her collar, flaming against her skin.
And when she looks up again, looks at me, it’s the other woman.
Saturday, November 6
46
Bina leaves a little past seven, just as light is wrapping its fingers around the curtains. She snores, I’ve learned, light little snuffles, like distant waves. Unexpected.
I thank her, sink my head into the pillow, drop back into sleep. When I wake, I check my phone. Almost eleven o’clock.
I stare at the screen for a moment. A minute later I’m talking to Ed. No “guess who” this time.
“That’s unbelievable,” he says after a pause.
“Yet it happened.”
He pauses again. “I’m not saying it didn’t. But”—I brace myself—“you’ve been really heavily medicated lately. So—”
“So you don’t believe me, either.”
A sigh. “No, it’s not that I don’t believe you. Only—”
“Do you know how frustrating this is?” I shout.
He goes quiet. I continue.
“I saw it happen. Yes, I was medicated, and I—yes. But I didn’t imagine it. You don’t take a bunch of pills and imagine something like that.” I suck in a breath. “I’m not some high schooler who plays violent video games and shoots up his school. I know what I saw.”
Ed’s still quiet.
Then:
“Well, for one thing, just to be academic, are you sure it was him?”
“Him who?”
“The husband. Who . . . did it.”
“Bina said the same thing. Of course I’m sure.”
“Couldn’t have been this other woman?”
I go still.
Ed’s voice perks, the way it does when he’s thinking out loud. “Say she’s the mistress, as you say. Down from Boston or wherever. They fight. Out comes the knife. Or whatever. In goes the knife. No husband involved.”
I think. I resist it, but—maybe. Except: “Who did it is beside the point,” I insist.