The Woman in the Window - A. J. Finn Page 0,107

downstairs and got into your desktop.” He leans toward me, speaks slowly. “Of course your password was Olivia’s name. For your desktop and for your email. And of course you just swapped out the letters. Just like you told Lizzie.” He shakes his head. “How fucking stupid are you?”

I say nothing.

He glares. “I asked you a question,” he says. “How fucking stupid—”

“Very,” I say.

“Very what?”

“Very stupid.”

“Who was?”

“I was.”

“Very fucking stupid.”

“Yes.”

He nods. Rain slaps the windows.

“So I made the Gmail account. On your own computer. You told Lizzie that your family was always like, ‘guess who’ when you talked, and that was just too good to pass up. Guess who, Anna?” He giggles. “Then I sent the picture to your email. I wish I’d seen your face.” He giggles again.

The room is airless. My breath is short.

“And I just had to put my mom’s name on the account. I bet that got you excited.” He smirks. “But you told Lizzie other stuff, too.” He leans forward again, the letter opener pointed at my chest. “You had an affair, you slut. And you killed your family.”

I can’t speak. I’ve got nothing left.

“And then you just got so freaked out about Katie. It was insane. You were insane. I mean, I kind of get it. I did it right in front of my dad, and he freaked out, too. Although I think he was relieved to have her gone, to be honest. I was. Like I said, she pissed me off.”

He shuffles up the bed, closer to me. “Move over.” I fold my legs, brace them against his thigh. “I should have checked the windows, but it all happened too fast. And anyway, it was so totally easy to deny it. Easier than lying. Easier than the truth.” He shakes his head. “I feel, like, bad for him. He just wanted to protect me.”

“He tried to protect you from me,” I say. “Even though he knew—”

“No,” he tells me, voice flat. “He tried to protect you from me.”

I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman, Alistair said. Not for Ethan’s sake, but for mine.

“But, you know, what can you do, right? One of the shrinks told my parents I was just bad.” He shrugs again. “Fine. Fucking fine.”

The anger, the profanity—he’s escalating. Blood surges to my temples. Focus. Remember. Think.

“You know, I kind of feel bad for the cops, too. That one guy was trying so hard to put up with you. What a saint.” Another sniffle. “The other one seemed like a bitch.”

I’m barely listening. “Tell me about your mother,” I murmur.

He looks at me. “What?”

“Your mother,” I say, nodding. “Tell me about her.”

A pause. An ache of thunder outside.

“Like . . . what?” he asks, wary.

I clear my throat. “You said that her boyfriends mistreated you.”

Now he glares. “I said they beat the shit out of me.”

“Yes. I bet that happened a lot.”

“Yeah.” Still glaring. “Why?”

“You said you thought you were ‘just bad.’”

“I said that’s what the other shrink said.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you’re just bad.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t?”

“No.” I try to steady my breath. “I don’t believe people are made that way.” I sit up straighter against the pillows, smooth the sheets across my thighs. “You weren’t made that way.”

“No?” He holds the blade loosely in his hand.

“Things happened to you when you were a child. There were . . . things you saw. Things beyond your control.” My voice is gaining strength. “Things you survived.”

He twitches.

“She wasn’t a good mother to you. You’re right.” He swallows; I swallow. “And I think that by the time your parents adopted you, you were very badly damaged. I think . . .” Do I risk it? “I think they care about you very much. Even if they haven’t been perfect,” I add.

He looks me in the eye. A tiny ripple distorts his face.

“They’re afraid of me,” he says.

I nod. “You said it yourself,” I remind him. “You said that Alistair was trying to protect me by keeping you—by keeping us apart.”

He doesn’t move.

“But I think he was afraid for you, too. I think he wanted to protect you, too.” I extend my arm. “I think that when they took you home, they saved you.”

He’s watching me.

“They love you,” I say. “You deserve love. And if we speak to them, I know—I’m sure—they’ll do everything they can to keep protecting you. Both of them. I know they want to . . . connect with you.”

My hand

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