that you followed her to a coffee place down the block.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. “Now, I’m assuming you didn’t choose today to go get yourself a flat white. I’m assuming you didn’t run into her there by coincidence.”
In spite of myself, I nearly grin.
“I know it’s been a tough time for you. You’ve had a bad week.” I find myself nodding. He’s very agreeable. Would make a good shrink. “But doing stuff like this isn’t going to help anybody, including you.”
He hasn’t said her name yet. Will he? “What you said on Friday really upset some people. Just between you and me, Mrs. Russell”—there it is—“seems pretty high-strung.”
I bet she’s high-strung, I think. She’s impersonating a dead woman.
“And I don’t think her kid was too happy about it, either.”
I open my mouth. “I spoke—”
“So I—” He stops. “What was that?”
I purse my lips. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He grunts. “I wanted to ask you to just take it easy for a while. Good to hear you’re getting outside.” Is that a joke? “How’s that cat? He still got an attitude?”
I don’t respond. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“And your tenant?”
I chew my lip. Downstairs, there’s that stepladder braced against the basement door; belowground, I saw a dead woman’s earring at David’s bedside.
“Detective.” I grip the phone. I need to hear it once more. “You really don’t believe me?”
A long silence, then he sighs, deep and rumbly. “I’m sorry, Dr. Fox. I think you believe what you say you saw. I just— I don’t.”
I wasn’t expecting otherwise. Fine. All fine.
“You know, if you want to talk to someone ever, we’ve got good counselors here who can help you out. Or just listen.”
“Thank you, Detective.” I sound stiff.
Another silence. “Just—take it easy, okay? I’ll let Mrs. Russell know that we’ve talked.”
I wince. And hang up before he can.
65
I sip my wine, grab my phone, stalk into the hall. I want to forget about Little. I want to forget about the Russells.
The Agora. I’ll check my messages. I walk downstairs, place the glass in the kitchen sink. Moving to the living room, I tap my passcode onto the phone screen.
Passcode incorrect.
I furrow my brow. Clumsy fingers. I peck at the screen a second time.
Passcode incorrect.
“What?” I ask. The living room has gone dark with dusk; I reach for the lamp, switch it on. Once more, carefully, eyes on hands: 0-2-1-4.
Passcode incorrect.
The phone twitches. I’m locked out. I don’t understand.
When was the last time I tapped in my passcode? I didn’t need it to answer Little’s call just now; I used Skype to dial Boston earlier. My mind is foggy.
Annoyed, I march back up to the study, to the desktop. Surely I’m not locked out of email as well? I enter the computer password, visit the Gmail home page. My screen name is preloaded into the address field. I type the password slowly.
Yes—I’m in. The restore-access process for my phone is simple enough; within sixty seconds, a replacement code pings in my inbox. I enter it onto the phone screen, switch it back to 0214.
Still, what the hell? Maybe the code expired—does that happen? Did I change it? Or was it just fumbling fingers? I chew a nail. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Nor are my motor skills. I eye the wineglass.
A little batch of messages awaits me in my inbox, one a plea from a Nigerian prince, the remainder dispatches from my Agora crew. I spend an hour replying. Mitzi from Manchester recently switched anxiety medications. Kala88 is engaged. And GrannyLizzie, it seems, squired by her sons, managed to take a few steps outside this afternoon. Me too, I think.
Past six, and suddenly fatigue avalanches me, buries me. I slump forward, like a beat-up pillow, and rest my forehead against the desk. I need to sleep. I’ll double-dose on temazepam tonight. And tomorrow I can work on Ethan.
One of my more precocious patients used to begin every session with the words “It’s the strangest thing, but . . .”—and then proceed to describe experiences that were perfectly ordinary. But I feel that way now. It’s the strangest thing. It’s the strangest thing, but what seemed urgent just a moment ago—what’s seemed urgent since Thursday—has shrunk, dwindled, like a flame in the cold. Jane. Ethan. That woman. Even Alistair.
I’m running on fumes. Grape fumes, I hear Ed crack. Ha-ha.
I’ll talk to them, too. Tomorrow. Ed. Livvy.
Monday, November 8
66
“Ed.”
Then a moment later—or maybe an hour:
“Livvy.”
My voice was a puff of breath.