“You are there, aren’t you, Fox?”
“I’m here.” I haven’t heard my own voice in days. It sounds unfamiliar, frail, as though someone else is ventriloquizing through me.
“Good. I suspected as much.” He’s chewing on his words; I know there’s a cigarette speared between his teeth. “My hypothesis was correct.” A rush of white noise. He’s blowing smoke across the mouthpiece.
“I wanted to speak to you,” I begin.
He goes quiet. I can sense him shifting gears; I can practically hear it—something in his breathing. He’s in psychologist mode.
“I wanted to tell you . . .”
A long pause. He clears his throat. He’s nervous, I realize, and it’s something of a jolt. Wesley Brilliant, on edge.
“I’ve been having a hard time.” There.
“With anything in particular?” he asks.
With the death of my husband and daughter, I want to shout. “With . . .”
“Mm-hm.” Is he stalling, or waiting for more?
“That night . . .” I don’t know how to complete the sentence. I feel like the needle on a compass, spinning, seeking someplace to settle.
“What are you thinking, Fox?” Very Brill, prompting me like this. My own practice is to let the patient proceed at her own pace; Wesley moves faster.
“That night . . .”
*
That night, right before our car dove off that cliff, you called me. I’m not blaming you. I’m not involving you. I just want you to know.
That night, it was already over—four months of lies: to Phoebe, who might have discovered us; to Ed, who did discover us, that December afternoon I sent him a text meant for you.
That night, I regretted every moment we spent together: the mornings in the hotel around the corner, shy light peeking through the curtains; the evenings we’d swap messages on our phones for hours. The day it all began, with that glass of wine in your office.
That night, we’d had the house on the market for a week, as the broker slotted tours and I pleaded with Ed and he struggled to look at me. I thought you were the girl next door.
That night—
*
But he interrupts me.
“To be very frank, Anna”—and I stiffen, because although he’s seldom anything but frank, it’s rare indeed for him to call me by my first name—“I’ve been trying to put that behind me.” He pauses. “Trying and succeeding, largely.”
Oh.
“You didn’t want to see me afterward. In the hospital. I wanted—I offered to come see you at home, remember, but you wouldn’t—you didn’t get back to me.” He’s slipping on his words, stumbling, like a man striding through snow. Like a woman circling her wrecked car.
“I didn’t—I don’t know if you’re seeing anyone. A professional, I mean. I’m happy to recommend someone.” He pauses. “Or if you’re set, then . . . well.” Another pause, longer this time.
Finally: “I’m not sure what you want from me.”
I was wrong. He isn’t playing psychologist; he’s not hoping to help me. He took two days to call me back. He’s looking for an escape.
And what do I want from him? Fair question. I don’t blame him, truly. I don’t hate him. I don’t miss him.
When I called his office—was it only two days ago?—I must have wanted something. But then Norelli spoke those magic words, and the world changed. And now it doesn’t matter.
I must have said this out loud. “What doesn’t matter?” he asks.
You, I think. I don’t say it.
Instead I hang up.
Thursday, November 11
79
At eleven sharp the doorbell rings. I wrest myself from bed, peer out the front windows. It’s Bina at the door, her black hair brilliant in the morning sun. I’d forgotten about her visiting today. I’d forgotten about her altogether.
I step back, survey the houses across the street, scanning them east-west: the Gray Sisters, the Millers, the Takedas, that abandoned double-wide. My southern empire.
The doorbell again.
I slope downstairs, cross to the hall door, see her framed within the intercom screen. Press the speaker. “I’m not feeling well today,” I say.
I watch her speak. “Should I come in?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“May I come in?”
“No. Thanks. I really need to be alone.”
She chews her lip. “Is everything okay?”
“I just need to be alone,” I repeat.
She nods. “Okay.”
I wait for her to leave.
“Dr. Fielding told me about what happened. He heard from the police.”
I say nothing, just close my eyes. A long pause.
“Well—so I’m going to see you next week,” she says. “Wednesday, like usual.”
Maybe not. “Yes.”
“And will you call me if you need anything?”
I won’t. “I will.”
I open my eyes, see her nod again. She turns, walks down the steps.
That’s done. First Dr. Fielding, now Bina. Anyone else? Oui: Yves tomorrow. I’ll write him to cancel. Je ne peux pas . . .
I’ll do it in English.
Before returning to the stairwell, I fill Punch’s food and water bowls. He trots over, dips his tongue into his Fancy Feast, then pricks his ears—the pipes are gurgling.
David, downstairs. I haven’t thought about him in a while.
I pause by the basement door, grasp the stepladder, move it to one side. I knock on the door, call his name.
Nothing. I call it again.
This time I hear footsteps. I flip the lock and raise my voice.
“I’ve unlocked the door. You can come up. If you want,” I add.
Before I’ve finished, the door opens, and he stands before me, two steps down, in a snug T-shirt and balding jeans. We look at each other.
I speak first. “I wanted to—”
“I’m clearing out,” he says.
I blink.
“Things got . . . weird.”
I nod.
He rummages in his back pocket, pulls out a slip of paper. Hands it to me.
I accept it wordlessly, unfold it.
Not working out. Sorry I upset you. Left key under door.
I nod again. I hear the tick of the grandfather clock across the room.
“Well,” I say.
“Here’s the key,” he says, offering it to me. “Door’ll lock behind me.”
I take it from him. Another pause.
He looks me in the eye. “That earring.”
“Oh, you don’t need—”
“It belonged to a lady named Katherine. Like I said. I don’t know that Russell guy’s wife.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Now he nods. And closes the door.
I leave it unlocked.
Back in my bedroom, I send Dr. Fielding a terse text: I’m fine. See you Tuesday. He calls me immediately. The phone rings on, rings out.
Bina, David, Dr. Fielding. I’m clearing house.
I pause in the doorway of the master bath, eyeing the shower the way one might appraise a painting at a gallery; not for me, I decide, or at least not today. I select a robe (must wash the stained one, I remind myself, although by now that splash of wine will be tattooed into the fabric) and wander down to the study.
It’s been three days since I sat at my computer. I grip the mouse, slide it to one side. The screen lights up, prompts me for the password. I enter it.
Once again I see my sleeping face.
I rock back in the chair. All this time it’s been lurking behind the dark of the screen, an ugly secret. My hand strikes the mouse like a snake: I whip the cursor to the corner, click the picture shut.
Now I’m looking at the email it was smuggled in. guesswhoanna.
Guess who. I don’t recall doing this, this—what was it Norelli said? “Little midnight selfie”? Hand to heart, I’ve no memory. Yet those are my words, our words; and David has an alibi (an alibi—I’ve never before known anyone with, or for that matter without, an alibi); and no one else could have accessed the bedroom. No one’s Gaslight-ing me.
. . . Only wouldn’t the photograph still be in my camera roll?
I frown.
Yes, it would. Unless I thought to delete it, but . . . well. But.
My Nikon is perched on the edge of my desk, strap dangling off the side. I reach for it, drag it toward me. Switch it on and inspect the photo cache.