Then he mouths something I can’t hear.
“What?” I lean in, hear him whisper a pair of words: “I’m scared.”
And before I can reply, he bolts to the door, flings it open. It swings there as the front door groans, slams shut.
I’m left standing by the fireplace, heat at my back, the chill of the hall before me.
64
After pressing the door shut, I lift the glass of water from the floor and dump its contents down the sink. The merlot bottle chimes against the rim as I pour wine into it. Chimes again. My hands are trembling.
I drink deep, think deep. I feel exhausted, exhilarated. I ventured outside—walked outside—and survived. I wonder what Dr. Fielding will say. I wonder what I should tell him. Maybe nothing. I frown.
I know more now, too. The woman is panicking. Ethan is frightened. Jane is . . . well. I don’t know about Jane. But it’s more than I knew before. I feel as though I’ve captured a pawn. I’m the Thinking Machine.
I drink deeper still. I’m the Drinking Machine.
I drink until my nerves stop twitching—an hour, by the grandfather clock. I watch the minute hand sweep its face, imagine my veins filling with wine, bold and thick, cooling me, strengthening me. Then I float upstairs. I spy the cat on the landing; he notices me, slinks into the study. I follow him.
On the desk, my phone lights up. I don’t recognize the number. I set the glass down on the desk. After the third ring, I swipe the screen.
“Dr. Fox.” The voice is trench-deep. “Detective Little here. We met on Friday, if you remember.”
I pause, then sit at the desk. Push the glass out of reach. “Yes, I remember.”
“Good, good.” He sounds pleased; I imagine him stretching back in his seat, folding one arm behind his head. “How is the good doctor?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I was wondering if I’d hear from you before now.”
I say nothing.
“Got your number from Morningside and wanted to check in. You doing okay?”
I just told him I was. “Fine, thanks.”
“Good, good. Family okay?”
“Fine. All fine.”
“Good, good.” Where is this going?
Then his voice shifts gears. “Here’s the thing: We had a call from your neighbor a little while ago.”
Of course. Bitch. Well, she warned me. Reliable bitch. I extend my arm, grasp the glass of wine.
“She says 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. I could see it, a little spirit floating before my face, ghostly white in the frozen air.
Somewhere nearby, a chirp, over and over, ceaselessly—a single tone, like the call of a demented bird.
Then it stopped.
My vision swam in a low tide of red. My head throbbed. My ribs ached. My back felt broken. My throat felt seared.
The airbag was crumpled against the side of my face. The dashboard glowed crimson. The windshield sagged toward me, cracked and slack.
I frowned. Some process behind my eyes kept rebooting itself, some system glitch, a buzz in the machine.
I breathed, choked. Heard myself croak with pain. Swiveled my head, felt the top of my skull twist on the ceiling. That was unusual, wasn’t it? And I could taste saliva welling in the roof of my mouth. How was—
The buzz ceased.
We were upside down.
I choked again. My hands flew down, buried themselves in the fabric around my head, as though they could upend the car, push me upright. I heard myself whine, splutter.