The Woman in the Window - A. J. Finn Page 0,94

face, to brush my teeth. Besides, I did both this morning—will catch up tomorrow. I shed my clothes, scoop up the cat, climb into bed.

Punch tours the sheets, settling in a far corner. I listen to him breathe.

And again, perhaps it’s the wine—it’s almost certainly the wine—but I can’t sleep. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, at the ripple of crown molding along the edges; I roll to one side, peer into the dark of the hall. I turn onto my stomach, press my face against the pillow.

The temazepam. Still in its bottle on the coffee table. I should swing myself upright, head downstairs. Instead I thrash onto my other side.

Now I can see across the park. The Russell house has put itself to bed: The kitchen is dark; the curtains are drawn in the parlor; Ethan’s room is lit only by the phantom glow of the computer monitor.

I stare at it until my eyes go weak.

“What are you going to do, Mommy?”

I flip over, bury my face in the pillow, crush my eyelids shut. Not now. Not now. Focus on something else, anything else.

Focus on Jane.

I rewind. I replay the conversation with Bina; I picture Ethan at the window, backlit, fingers splayed against the glass. I switch reels, zip through Vertigo, through Ethan’s visit. The lonely hours of the week rush by in reverse; my kitchen fills with visitors—first the detectives, then David, then Alistair and Ethan. Accelerating now, blurring, past the coffee shop, past the hospital, past the night I watched her die, the camera leaping from the floor to my hands—back, back, back to the moment she turned from the sink and faced me.

Stop. I twist onto my back, open my eyes. The ceiling spreads above me, a projection screen.

And filling the frame is Jane—the woman I knew as Jane. She stands at the kitchen window, that braid dangling between her shoulders.

The scene replays in slow motion.

Jane revolves toward me, and I zoom in on her bright face, the electric eyes, the gleaming silver pendant. Pull out now, go wide: a glass of water in one hand, a tumbler of brandy in the other. “No idea if brandy actually works!” she trills, in surround sound.

I freeze the frame.

What would Wesley say? Let’s refine our inquiry, Fox.

Question one: Why does she introduce herself to me as Jane Russell?

. . . Question one, addendum: Does she? Aren’t I the one who speaks first, calls her by that name?

I rewind again, to the moment I first heard her voice. She pivots back toward the sink. Play: “I was just headed next door . . .”

Yes. That was it—that was the moment I decided who she was. The moment I read the board wrong.

So, second question: How does she respond? I fast-forward, squint at the ceiling, zero in on her mouth as I hear myself speak: “You’re the woman from across the park,” I say. “You’re Jane Russell.”

She flushes. Her lips part. She says—

And now I hear something else, something off-screen.

Something downstairs.

The sound of breaking glass.

87

If I dial 911, how fast can they get here? If I call Little, will he pick up?

My hand springs to my side.

No phone.

I slap the pillow beside me, the blankets. Nothing. The phone isn’t here.

Think. Think. When did I last use it? On the stairs, when I was talking to Bina. And then—and then I went into the living room to turn off the lights. What did I do with the phone? Bring it up to the study? Leave it there?

Doesn’t matter, I realize. I don’t have it.

That sound splits the silence again. A crash of glass.

I step out of bed, one leg before the other, press my feet into the carpet. Push myself upright. Find my robe draped on a chair, tug it on. Tread toward the door.

Outside, gray falls from the skylight. I steal through the doorway, flatten my back against the wall. Down the coiling staircase, my breath shallow, my heart a cannon.

I alight on the next landing. All is quiet below.

Slowly—slowly—I heel-toe into the study, feel rattan beneath my feet, then carpet. From the doorway I scan the desk. The phone isn’t there.

I turn around. I’m one floor away. I’m unarmed. I can’t call for help.

Glass shatters downstairs.

I shudder, knock my hip against the knob of the closet door.

The closet door.

I seize the knob. Twist. Hear the catch, pull the door open.

Charcoal darkness yawns before me. I step forward.

Inside, I wave my hand to the right, brush my

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