I watch him until he’s out of sight, my lungs deflating, my shoulders slumped, the chill air haunting the kitchen. That was my best shot. At least he didn’t run home.
But still. But still. The detectives will be here any moment. I’ve got the portrait—there, facedown on the floor, blown by the draft. I stoop to collect it, to grab my robe, damp in my hand.
The doorbell rings. Little. I straighten, seize the phone, drop it into my pocket; hurry toward the door, bash the buzzer with my fist, wrench the lock. Watch the frosted glass. A shadow rises, resolves itself into a figure.
The scrap of paper shakes in my hand. I can’t wait. I reach for the knob, twist it, yank the door open.
It’s Ethan.
I’m too surprised to greet him. I stand there, the paper pinched between my fingers, the robe dripping onto my feet.
His cheeks are red from the cold. His hair needs cutting; it skims his brows, curls around his ears. His eyes have gone wide.
We look at each other.
“You can’t just scream at me, you know,” he says quietly.
This is unexpected. Before I can stop myself: “I didn’t know how else to reach you,” I say.
Drops of water tap on my feet, on the floor. I shift the robe beneath my arm.
Punch trots into the room from the stairwell, heads straight for Ethan’s shins.
“What do you want?” he asks, looking down. I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or to the cat.
“I know your mother was here,” I tell him.
He sighs, shakes his head. “You’re—delusional.” The word steps off his tongue on stilts, as though unfamiliar to him. I don’t need to wonder where he heard it. Or about whom.
I shake my head in turn. “No,” I say, and I feel my lips bending into a smile. “No. I found this.” I hold the portrait in front of him.
He looks at it.
The house is silent, except for the shuffle of Punch’s fur against Ethan’s jeans.
I watch him. He’s just gawking at the picture.
“What is this?” he asks.
“It’s me.”
“Who drew it?”
I incline my head, step forward. “You can read the signature.”
He takes the paper. His eyes narrow. “But—”
The buzzer jolts us both. Our heads snap toward the door. Punch streaks toward the sofa.
With Ethan watching, I reach for the intercom, press it. Footsteps clop in the hall, and Little enters the room, a tidal wave of a man, Norelli trailing in his wake.
They see Ethan first.
“What’s going on here?” Norelli asks, her eyes swerving hard from him to me.
“You said that someone had been in your house,” says Little.
Ethan looks at me, slides a glance toward the door. “You stay here,” I say.
“You can go,” Norelli tells him.
“Stay,” I bark, and he doesn’t move.
“Have you checked the house?” Little asks. I shake my head.
He nods at Norelli, who walks across the kitchen, pausing by the basement door. She eyes the stepladder, eyes me. “Tenant,” I say.
She proceeds to the stairwell without a word.
I turn back to Little. His hands are plunged into his pockets; his eyes are locked on mine. I take a breath.
“So much—so much has happened,” I say. “First I got this . . .” My fingers dip into the pocket of the robe and dig out my phone. “. . . this message.” The robe lands on the floor with a splat.
I click on the email, expand the picture. Little takes the phone from me, holds it in his massive hand.
As he inspects the screen, I shiver—it’s chilly in here, and I’m barely dressed. My hair, I know, is snarly, bed-headed. I feel self-conscious.
So does Ethan, it seems, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Next to Little, he looks impossibly delicate, almost breakable. I want to hold him.
The detective thumbs the phone screen. “Jane Russell.”
“But it’s not,” I tell him. “Look at the email address.”
Little squints. “[email protected],” he recites carefully.
I nod.
“Taken at two oh two in the morning.” He looks at me. “And this was sent at twelve eleven this afternoon.”
I nod again.
“Have you ever received a message from this address before?”
“No. But can’t you . . . track it?”
Behind me, Ethan speaks. “What is it?”
“It’s a picture,” I start to say, but Little continues: “How would someone get into your house? Don’t you have an alarm?”
“No. I’m always here. Why would I need . . .” I trail off. The answer is in Little’s hand. “No,” I repeat.
“What’s it a picture of?” Ethan asks.
This time Little looks at him, pins him with a stare. “Enough questions,” he says, and Ethan flinches. “You go over there.” Ethan moves to the sofa, sits beside Punch.
Little steps into the kitchen, toward the side door. “So someone could have come in here.” He sounds sharp. He flips the lock, opens the door, shuts it. A puff of cold air wafts across the room.
“Someone did come in here,” I point out.
“Without setting off an alarm, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Has anything been taken from the house?”
This hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “My desktop and my phone are still here, but maybe—I don’t know. I haven’t looked. I was scared,” I add.
His expression thaws. “I bet.” Softer now. “Do you have any idea who could have photographed you?”
I pause. “The only person with a key—the only person who might have a key is my tenant. David.”
“And where is he?”
“I don’t know. He said he was going out of town, but—”
“So he has a key, or he might have a key?”
I cross my arms. “Might. His apartment—the apartment has a different key, but he could have . . . stolen mine.”
Little nods. “You having any problems with David?”
“No. I mean—no.”
Little nods again. “Anything else?”
“There—he—there was a razor that he borrowed. A box cutter, I mean. And then he put it back without telling me.”
“And no one else could have come in?”
“No one.”
“Just thinking out loud.” Now he gulps a mouthful of air, bellows so loud my nerves throb: “Hey, Val?”
“Still upstairs,” Norelli calls.
“Anything to see up there?”
Quiet. We wait.
“Nothing,” she shouts.
“Any mess?”
“No mess.”
“Anyone in the closet?”
“No one in the closet.” I hear her footsteps on the stairs. “Coming down.”
Little returns to me. “So we’ve got someone coming in—we don’t know how—and taking a picture of you, but not taking anything else.”
“Yes.” Is he doubting me? I point to the phone in his hand again, as though it can answer his questions. It can answer his questions.
“Sorry,” he says, and passes it back to me.
Norelli walks into the kitchen, coat whipping behind her. “We good?” asks Little.
“We’re all good.”
He smiles at me. “Coast is clear,” he says. I don’t respond.
Norelli steps toward us. “What’s the story with our B&E?”
I extend the phone to her. She doesn’t take it, but looks at the screen.
“Jane Russell?” she asks.
I point to the email address beside Jane’s name. A glare ripples across Norelli’s face.
“Have they sent you anything before?”
“No. I was saying to— No.”
“It’s a Gmail address,” she points out. I see her exchange a look with Little.
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Can’t you track it? Or trace it?”
“Well,” she says, rocking back, “that’s a problem.”
“Why?”
She tilts her head toward her partner. “It’s Gmail,” he says.
“Yes. So?”
“So Gmail hides IP addresses.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means there’s no way to trace a Gmail account,” he continues.
I stare at him.
“For all we know,” Norelli explains, “you could have sent this to yourself.”
I swivel to look at her. Her arms are folded across her chest.
A laugh escapes me. “What?” I say—because what else can be said?
“You could have sent that email from that phone and we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”
“Why—why?” I’m spluttering. Norelli glances down at the soggy robe. I bend over to pick it up, just to do something, just to restore some sense of order.