On-screen, Jimmy is forcing Kim Novak up the bell tower. “I couldn’t follow her—God knows I tried,” he cries, clutching Kim by the shoulders. “One doesn’t often get a second chance. I want to stop being haunted.”
“I want to stop being haunted,” I say. I close my eyes, say it again. Stroke the cat. Reach for my glass.
“And she was the one who died, not you. The real wife,” shouts Jimmy. His hands are on her throat. “You were the copy. You were the counterfeit.”
Something chimes in my brain, like a radar ping. A gentle tone, high and remote, soft, but it distracts me.
Only briefly, though. I lean back, sip my wine.
A nun, a scream, a tolling bell, and the film ends. “That’s how I wanna go,” I inform the cat.
I scrape myself off the sofa, deposit Punch on the floor; he complains. Bring my glass to the sink. Must start keeping the house orderly. Ethan might want to spend time here—I can’t go all Havisham. (Another Christine Gray book-club pick. I should find out what they’re reading these days. No harm in that, surely.)
Upstairs, in the study, I visit my chess forum. Two hours go by, and night drops outside; I win three straight matches. Time to celebrate. I fetch a bottle of merlot from the kitchen—I play best when well oiled—and pour as I ascend the stairs, blotting the rattan with wine. I’ll sponge it down later.
Two more hours, two more victories. Unstoppable me. I drain the last of the bottle into my glass. I’ve drunk more than I meant to, but I’ll be better tomorrow.
As my sixth game kicks off, I think about the past two weeks, the fever that seized me. It felt like hypnosis, like Gene Tierney in Whirlpool; it felt like insanity, like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight. I did things I can’t remember. I didn’t do things I can remember. The clinician in me rubs her hands together: A genuine dissociative episode? Dr. Fielding will—
Dammit.
I’ve sacrificed the queen by accident—mistook it for a bishop. I swear, detonate an F-bomb. It’s been days since I last cursed. I chew on the word, savor it.
Still, though. That queen. Rook&Roll pounces, of course, claims her.
WTF??? he messages me. Bad move lol!!!
Thought it was another piece, I explain, and lift the glass to my mouth.
And then I freeze.
84
What if . . .
Think.
It curls away from me, like blood in water.
I grip the glass.
What if . . .
No.
Yes.
What if:
Jane—the woman I knew as Jane—was never Jane at all?
. . . No.
. . . Yes.
What if:
What if she had been someone else altogether?
This is 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 wash my face, to brush my teeth. Besides, I did both this morning—will catch up tomorrow. I shed my clothes, scoop up the cat, climb into bed.
Punch tours the sheets, settling in a far corner. I listen to him breathe.
And again, perhaps it’s the wine—it’s almost certainly the wine—but I can’t sleep. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, at the ripple of crown molding along the edges; I roll to one side, peer into the dark of the hall. I turn onto my stomach, press my face against the pillow.
The temazepam. Still in its bottle on the coffee table. I should swing myself upright, head downstairs. Instead I thrash onto my other side.
Now I can see across the park. The Russell house has put itself to bed: The kitchen is dark; the curtains are drawn in the parlor; Ethan’s room is lit only by the phantom glow of the computer monitor.