“I don’t know.” Even though I do know, I know it does.
“The doctor at the hospital said that hallucinations can be a side effect of the medication you’re taking.”
“I wasn’t hallucinating. I saw what I saw.” I struggle to my feet. The cat bolts from beneath the chair, streaks into the living room.
Little raises his hands, his worn palms broad and flat. “Now, you heard the phone call just now. You were having a pretty tough time talking.”
Norelli steps forward. “When the hospital checked, you had a blood-alcohol level of point two-two,” she tells me. “That’s almost three times the legal limit.”
“So?”
Behind her, Alistair’s eyes are ping-ponging between us.
“I wasn’t hallucinating,” I hiss. My words tumble as they flee my mouth, land on their sides. “I wasn’t imagining things. I’m not insane.”
“I understand your family doesn’t live here, ma’am?” Norelli says.
“Is that a question?”
“That’s a question.”
Alistair: “My son says you’re divorced.”
“Separated,” I correct him, automatically.
“And from what Mr. Russell tells us,” says Norelli, “no one in the neighborhood ever sees you. Seems you don’t go outside very often.”
I say nothing. I do nothing.
“So here’s another theory,” she continues. “You were looking for some attention.”
I step back, bump into the kitchen counter. My robe flaps open.
“No friends, family’s wherever, you have too much to drink and decide to raise a little ruckus.”
“You think I made this up?” I pitch forward, bellowing.
“That’s what I think,” she confirms.
Little clears his throat. “I think,” he says, his voice soft, “that you were maybe going a little stir-crazy in here, and—we’re not saying you did this on purpose . . .”
“You’re the ones imagining things.” I point a wobbly finger at them, wave it like a wand. “You’re the ones making things up. I saw her covered in blood through that window.”
Norelli closes her eyes, sighs. “Ma’am, Mr. Russell says his wife has been out of town. He says you’ve never met her.”
Silence. The room feels electrified.
“She was in here,” I say, slowly and clearly, “twice.”
“There’s—”
“First she helped me off the street. Then she visited again. And”—glaring at Alistair now—“he came looking for her.”
He nods. “I was looking for my son, not my wife.” He swallows. “And you said no one had been here.”
“I lied. She sat at that table. We played chess.”
He looks at Norelli, helpless.
“And you made her scream,” I say.
Now Norelli turns to Alistair.
“She says she heard a scream,” he explains.
“I did hear a scream. Three days ago.” Is that accurate? Maybe not. “And Ethan told me it was her.” Not strictly true, but close.
“Let’s leave Ethan out of it,” Little says.
I stare at them, ranged around me, like those three kids hurling eggs, those three little shits.
I’m going to lay them out flat.
“So where is she?” I ask, snapping my arms across my chest. “Where’s Jane? If she’s fine, bring her over here.”
They share a glance.
“Come on.” I gather my robe around me, yank the sash, cross my arms again. “Go get her.”
Norelli turns to Alistair. “Will you . . .” she murmurs, and he nods, recedes into the living room, pulling his phone from his pocket.
“And then,” I say to Little, “I want all of you out of my house. You think I’m delusional.” He flinches. “And you think I’m lying.” Norelli doesn’t react. “And he’s saying I never met a woman I met twice.” Alistair mutters into the phone. “And I want to know exactly who went where in here when where—” Snarling myself in my words. I pause, recover. “I want to know who else has been in here.”
Alistair walks back toward us. “It’ll just take a moment,” he says, slipping the phone into his pocket.
I lock eyes with him. “I bet this’ll be a long moment.”
No one speaks. My eyes roam the room: Alistair, inspecting his watch; Norelli, placidly observing the cat. Only Little watches me.
Twenty seconds pass.
Twenty more.
I sigh, unfold my arms.
This is ridiculous. The woman was—
The buzzer stutters.
My head swerves toward Norelli, then Little.
“Let me get that,” says Alistair, as he turns toward the door.
I watch, stock-still, as he presses the buzzer button, twists the knob, opens the hall door, stands to one side.
A second later, Ethan slopes into the room, eyes cast low.
“You’ve met my son,” Alistair says. “And this is my wife,” he adds, shutting the door after her.
I look at him. I look at her.
I’ve never seen this woman in my life.
41
She’s tall but fine-boned, with sleek dark hair framing a sculpted face. Her brows are slender, sharp, arched above a pair of gray-green eyes. She regards me coolly, then crosses the kitchen and extends a hand.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says.
Her voice is low and lush, very Bacall. It clots in my ears.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Her hand stays there, thrust toward my chest. After a moment I wave it away.
“Who is this?”
“This is your neighbor.” Little sounds almost sad.
“Jane Russell,” says Norelli.
I look at her, then at him. Then at the woman.
“No, you’re not,” I tell her.
She withdraws her hand.
Back to the detectives: “No, she isn’t. What are you saying? She isn’t Jane.”
“I promise you,” Alistair begins, “she is—”
“You don’t need to promise anything, Mr. Russell,” Norelli tells him.
“Does it make a difference if I promise?” asks the woman.
I round on her, step forward. “Who are you?” I sound raw, jagged, and I’m pleased to see her and Alistair scuttle back together, as though they’re cuffed at the ankle.
“Dr. Fox,” Little says, “let’s calm down.” He places a hand on my arm.
It jolts me. I spin away from him, away from Norelli, and now I’m in the center of the kitchen, the detectives looming by the window, Alistair and the woman backed into the living room.
I turn to them, advance. “I have met Jane Russell twice,” I say slowly, simply. “You are not Jane Russell.”
This time she stands her ground. “I can show you my driver’s license,” she offers, dipping a hand into her pocket.
I shake my head, simply, slowly. “I don’t want to see your driver’s license.”
“Ma’am,” calls Norelli, and I twist my head over my shoulder. She approaches, steps between us. “That’s enough.”
Alistair is watching me with wide eyes. The woman’s hand is still burrowed in her pocket. Behind them, Ethan has retreated to the chaise, Punch coiled at his feet.
“Ethan,” I say, and his gaze glides up to me, like he was waiting to be summoned. “Ethan.” I push between Alistair and the woman. “What’s happening?”
He looks at me. Looks away.
“She is not your mother.” I touch his shoulder. “Tell them that.”
He cocks his head, swerves his eyes left. Clenches his jaw and swallows. Picks at a fingernail. “You’ve never met my mother,” he mumbles.
I remove my hand.
Turn around, slowly, dazed.
Then they speak at once, a little chorus: “Can we—” asks Alistair, nodding toward the hall door just as Norelli says, “We’re finished here,” and Little invites me to “get some rest.”
I blink at them.
“Can we—” Alistair tries again.
“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” says Norelli. “And Mrs. Russell.”
He and the woman eye me warily, as though I’m an animal that’s just been tranquilized, then walk to the door.
“Come on,” says Alistair, sharply. Ethan rises, his eyes fixed on the floor, and steps over the cat.
As they file out the door, Norelli lines up after them. “Dr. Fox, it’s a criminal offense to make false police reports,” she informs me. “Do you understand?”
I stare at her. I think I bob my head.
“Good.” She tugs at her collar. “That’s all I’ve got.”
The door closes behind her. I hear the outer door unlatch.
It’s just me and Little. I look at his wingtips, black and spade-sharp, and remember (how? why?) that I’ve missed my French lesson with Yves today.