“You can’t be. You’re not even sure that she’s . . .”
“What?”
“You know.”
“What?”
Now he sighs. “Alive.”
“I don’t think she’s alive.”
“I mean that you’re not even sure that she exists, or ever—”
“Yes, I am. I am sure. I am not delusional.”
Silence. I listen to him breathe.
“You don’t think you’re being paranoid?”
And before he’s finished, I’m on top of him: “It isn’t paranoia if it’s really happening.”
Silence. This time he doesn’t follow up.
When I speak again, my voice jangles. “It’s very frustrating to be questioned like this. It’s very, very frustrating to be stuck here.” I gulp. “In this house, and in this . . .” I want to say loop, but by the time I’ve found the word, he’s talking.
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I imagine, then. Look, Anna,” he continues before I can jump in. “You’ve been going at warp speed for two straight days. All weekend. Now you’re saying David might have something to do with . . . whatever.” He coughs. “You’re winding yourself up. Maybe tonight you can just watch a movie or read or something. Go to bed early.” Cough. “Are you taking your meds properly?”
No. “Yes.”
“And you’re keeping off the booze?”
Of course not. “Of course.”
A pause. I can’t tell if he believes me.
“Got anything to say to Livvy?”
I exhale in relief. “I do.” I listen to the rain drumming its fingers against the glass. And a moment later I hear her voice, soft and breathy.
“Mommy?”
I beam. “Hi, pumpkin.”
“Hi.”
“You doing well?”
“Yes.”
“I miss you.”
“Mm.”
“What’s that?”
“I said ‘mm.’”
“Does that mean ‘I miss you too, Mommy’?”
“Yes. What’s happening there?”
“Where?”
“In New York City.” That’s how she’s always referred to it. So formal.
“You mean at home?” My heart swells: home.
“Yes, at home.”
“Just something with the new neighbors. Our new neighbors.”
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing really, pumpkin. Just a misunderstanding.”
Then I hear Ed again. “Look, Anna—sorry to interrupt, kiddo: If you’re worried about David, you ought to get in touch with the police. Not because he’s, you know . . . necessarily involved in whatever’s going on, but—he’s got a record, and you shouldn’t be afraid of your own tenant.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Okay?”
I nod again.
“You’ve got that cop’s number?”
“Little. I’ve got it.”
I peek through the blinds. There’s a flicker of movement across the park. The Russells’ front door has swung open, a bright flap of white in the gray drizzle.
“Okay,” says Ed, but I’m not listening anymore.
When the door closes, the woman has appeared on the stoop. She’s in a knee-length red coat, like the flame of a torch, and above her head bobs a translucent half-moon umbrella. I reach for my camera on the desk, lift it to my eye.
“What was that?” I ask Ed.
“I said I want you to take care of yourself.”
I’m peering through the viewfinder. Streaks of rainwater like varicose veins slide down the umbrella. I lower the lens, zoom in on her face: the tip-tilt nose, the milky skin. Dark clouds brew under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping.
By the time I say goodbye to Ed, she’s slowly descending the front steps in her high boots. She stops, withdraws her phone from her pocket, studies it; then she tucks it away and turns east, toward me. Her face is blurry behind the bowl of the umbrella.
I’ve got to speak to her.
61
Now, while she’s alone. Now, while Alistair can’t interfere. Now, while the blood is roaring in my temples.
Now.
I fly into the hall, whirl down the stairs. If I don’t think, I can do it. If I don’t think. Don’t think. Thinking hasn’t gotten me anywhere so far. “The definition of insanity, Fox,” Wesley used to remind me, paraphrasing Einstein, “is doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result.” So stop thinking and start acting.
Of course, it was only three days ago that I acted—acted in this very same way—and I wound up in a hospital bed. To try that again is insane.
Either way, I’m crazy. Fine. I need to know. And I’m no longer sure my house is safe.
My slippers skid on the kitchen floor as I rush across it, swerve around the sofa. That tube of Ativan on the coffee table. I upend it, shake three into my palm, clap my hand to my mouth. Down the hatch. I feel like Alice swigging the drink me potion.
Run to the door. Kneel to retrieve the umbrella. Stand, twist the lock, yank the door open. Now I’m in the hall, watery light leaking through the leaded glass. I breathe—one, two—and thumb the umbrella spring.