what Little told me. No—it’s half of what Little told me. He said that the woman in number 207, the woman with the sleek haircut and slender hips, was definitely, demonstrably Jane Russell. Fine. Accepted.
But what if the woman I met, or thought I met, was in fact real—just another person posing as Jane? A piece I mistook for another piece? A bishop I confused with a queen?
What if she was the copy—the one who died? What if she was the counterfeit?
The glass has drifted to my lips again. I set it on the desk, push it away.
Why, though?
Think. Assume she was real. Yes: Overrule Little, overrule logic, and assume I was right all along—or mostly right. She was real. She was here. She was there, in their house. Why would the Russells—why did they—deny her existence? They could have plausibly maintained that she wasn’t Jane, but they went a step further.
And how could she know so much about them? And why did she pretend to be someone else, pretend to be Jane?
“Who could she have been?” asks Ed.
No. Stop it.
I stand, walk toward the window. Lift my eyes to the Russell house—that house. Alistair and Jane stand in the kitchen, talking; he clasps a laptop in one hand, her arms are folded across her chest. Let them look back, I think. In the dark of the study, I feel safe. I feel secret.
Movement in the corner of my eye. I flick a glance upstairs, to Ethan’s bedroom.
He’s at his window, just a narrow shadow against the lamplight behind him. Both hands are pressed against the glass, as though he’s straining to see through it. After a moment, he raises one hand. Waves at me.
My pulse quickens. I wave back, slowly.
Next move.
85
Bina answers on the first ring.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m—”
“Your doctor called me. He’s really worried about you.”
“I know.” I’m seated on the stairs, in a weak bath of moonlight. There’s a damp patch by my foot where I spilled wine earlier. Must sponge that.
“He says he’s been trying to reach you.”
“He has. I’m fine. Tell him I’m fine. Listen—”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“You sound—you’re slurring.”
“No. I was just asleep. Listen, I was thinking—”
“I thought you were asleep.”
I ignore this. “I’ve been thinking about things.”
“What things?” she asks, warily.
“The people across the park. That woman.”
“Oh, Anna.” She sighs. “This—I wanted to talk to you about it on Thursday, but you wouldn’t even let me in.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But—”
“That woman didn’t even exist.”
“No, I just can’t prove that she exists. Existed.”
“Anna. This is insane. It’s over.”
I’m silent.
“There’s nothing to prove.” Forceful, almost angry—I’ve never heard her sound like this. “I don’t know what you were thinking, or what was . . . happening to you, but it’s over. You’re making a mess of your life.”
I listen to her breathe.
“The longer you keep this up, the longer it’ll take to heal.”
Silence.
“You’re right.”
“Do you mean that?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Please tell me you’re not going to do anything crazy.”
“I’m not.”
“I need you to promise.”
“I promise.”
“I need you to say that this was all in your head.”
“This was all in my head.”
Quiet.
“Bina, you’re right. I’m sorry. It was just—an aftershock, or something. Like when neurons continue firing after death.”
“Well,” she says, her voice warming, “I don’t know about that.”
“Sorry. The point is, I’m not going to do anything crazy.”
“And you promise.”
“I promise.”
“So when I’m training you next week, I won’t hear anything—you know. Disturbing.”
“Nothing except the disturbing sounds I usually make.”
I listen to her smile. “Dr. Fielding said that you left the house again. Went down to the coffee shop.”
An eternity ago. “I did.”
“How was that?”
“Oh, horrific.”
“Still.”
“Still.”
Another pause. “One last time . . .” she says.
“I promise. This was all in my head.”
We say our goodbyes. We end the call.
My hand is rubbing the back of my neck, the way it often does when I lie.
86
I need to think before proceeding. There’s no margin for error. I have no allies.
Or perhaps one ally. I won’t reach out to him yet, though. Can’t.
Think. I need to think. And first I need to sleep. Maybe it’s the wine—it’s probably the wine—but suddenly I feel very tired. I check my phone. Almost ten thirty. Time flies.
I return to the living room, switch off the lamp. Up to the study, power down the desktop (message from Rook&Roll: Where did u go???). Up again to the bedroom. Punch follows me, tripping. Must do something about that paw. Maybe Ethan can take him to the vet.
I glance into the bathroom. Too exhausted to