the kitchen; behind me I hear his voice.
“Dr. Fox says she saw a woman get assaulted across the way. In Mr. Russell’s house. Do you know anything about this?”
“No. That why she asked me about a scream that time?” I don’t turn around; I’m already tipping wine into a tumbler. “Like I said, I didn’t hear anything.”
“Of course you didn’t,” says Alistair.
I spin to face them, the glass in my hand. “But Ethan said—”
“Ethan, get the hell out of here,” Alistair shouts. “How many times—”
“Calm down, Mr. Russell. Dr. Fox, I really don’t recommend that right now,” says Little, waving a finger at me. I set the tumbler on the counter, but keep my hand wrapped around it. I feel defiant.
He turns back to David. “Have you seen anything unusual in the house across the park?”
“His house?” asks David, glancing at Alistair, who bristles.
“This is—” he begins.
“No, I haven’t seen anything.” David’s bag is slipping down his shoulder; he straightens, jostles it back in place. “Haven’t been looking.”
Little nods. “Uh-huh. And have you met Mrs. Russell?”
“No.”
“How do you know Mr. Russell?”
“I hired him—” Alistair tries, but Little shows him his palm.
“He hired me to do some work,” David says. “Didn’t meet the wife.”
“But you had her earring in your bedroom.”
All eyes on me.
“I saw an earring in your bedroom,” I say, clutching my glass. “On your nightstand. Three pearls. That’s Jane Russell’s earring.”
David sighs. “No, it’s Katherine’s.”
“Katherine?” I say.
He nods. “Woman I was seeing. Wasn’t even seeing her. Woman who spent the night here a few times.”
“When was this?” asks Little.
“Last week. What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” Norelli assures him, returning to David’s side. She puts his phone in his hand. “Elizabeth Hughes says she was with him in Darien last night from midnight until ten.”
“Then I came straight here,” David says.
“So why were you in his bedroom?” Norelli asks me.
“She was snooping around,” answers David.
I blush, fire back. “You took a box cutter from me.”
He steps forward. I see Little tense. “You gave it to me.”
“Yes, but then you replaced it without saying anything.”
“Yeah, I had it in my pocket when I was going for a piss and I put it back where I got it. You’re welcome.”
“It just so happens that you put it back right after Jane—”
“That’s enough,” hisses Norelli.
I lift the glass to my lips, wine sloshing against the sides. As they watch, I swig it.
The portrait. The photograph. The earring. The box cutter. All of them knocked down, all of them burst like bubbles. There’s nothing left.
There’s almost nothing left.
I swallow, breathe.
“He was in prison, you know.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I can’t believe I’m saying them, can’t believe I’m hearing them.
“He was in prison,” I repeat. I feel disembodied. I go on. “For assault.”
David’s jaw tightens. Alistair is glaring at him; Norelli and Ethan are staring at me. And Little—Little looks inexpressibly sad.
“So why aren’t you giving him a hard time?” I ask. “I watch a woman get killed”—I flourish my phone—“and you say I’m imagining it. You say I’m lying.” I slap the phone onto the island. “I show you a picture that she drew and signed”—I point at Alistair, at the portrait in his hand—“and you say I did it myself. There’s a woman in that house who is not who she says she is, but you haven’t even bothered to check. You haven’t even tried.”
I move forward, just a small step, but everyone else retreats, as though I’m an approaching storm, as though I’m a predator. Good. “Someone comes into my house when I’m asleep and photographs me and sends me the photo—and you blame me.” I hear the catch in my throat, the crack in my voice. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I keep going.
“I’m not crazy, I’m not making any of this up.” I point a jittering finger at Alistair and Ethan. “I’m not seeing things that aren’t there. All this started when I saw his wife and his mother get stabbed. That’s what you should be looking into. Those are the questions you should be asking. And don’t tell me I didn’t see it, because I know what I saw.”
Silence. They’re frozen, a tableau. Even Punch has gone still, his tail curled into a question mark.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, drag it across my nose. Push my hair out of my eyes. Raise the glass to my mouth, drain it.
Little comes to life. He steps toward me, one long, slow