I stare at it until my eyes go weak.
“What are you going to do, Mommy?”
I flip over, bury my face in the pillow, crush my eyelids shut. Not now. Not now. Focus on something else, anything else.
Focus on Jane.
I rewind. I replay the conversation with Bina; I picture Ethan at the window, backlit, fingers splayed against the glass. I switch reels, zip through Vertigo, through Ethan’s visit. The lonely hours of the week rush by in reverse; my kitchen fills with visitors—first the detectives, then David, then Alistair and Ethan. Accelerating now, blurring, past the coffee shop, past the hospital, past the night I watched her die, the camera leaping from the floor to my hands—back, back, back to the moment she turned from the sink and faced me.
Stop. I twist onto my back, open my eyes. The ceiling spreads above me, a projection screen.
And filling the frame is Jane—the woman I knew as Jane. She stands at the kitchen window, that braid dangling between her shoulders.
The scene replays in slow motion.
Jane revolves toward me, and I zoom in on her bright face, the electric eyes, the gleaming silver pendant. Pull out now, go wide: a glass of water in one hand, a tumbler of brandy in the other. “No idea if brandy actually works!” she trills, in surround sound.
I freeze the frame.
What would Wesley say? Let’s refine our inquiry, Fox.
Question one: Why does she introduce herself to me as Jane Russell?
. . . Question one, addendum: Does she? Aren’t I the one who speaks first, calls her by that name?
I rewind again, to the moment I first heard her voice. She pivots back toward the sink. Play: “I was just headed next door . . .”
Yes. That was it—that was the moment I decided who she was. The moment I read the board wrong.
So, second question: How does she respond? I fast-forward, squint at the ceiling, zero in on her mouth as I hear myself speak: “You’re the woman from across the park,” I say. “You’re Jane Russell.”
She flushes. Her lips part. She says—
And now I hear something else, something off-screen.
Something downstairs.
The sound of breaking glass.
87
If I dial 911, how fast can they get here? If I call Little, will he pick up?
My hand springs to my side.
No phone.
I slap the pillow beside me, the blankets. Nothing. The phone isn’t here.
Think. Think. When did I last use it? On the stairs, when I was talking to Bina. And then—and then I went into the living room to turn off the lights. What did I do with the phone? Bring it up to the study? Leave it there?
Doesn’t matter, I realize. I don’t have it.
That sound splits the silence again. A crash of glass.
I step out of bed, one leg before the other, press my feet into the carpet. Push myself upright. Find my robe draped on a chair, tug it on. Tread toward the door.
Outside, gray falls from the skylight. I steal through the doorway, flatten my back against the wall. Down the coiling staircase, my breath shallow, my heart a cannon.
I alight on the next landing. All is quiet below.
Slowly—slowly—I heel-toe into the study, feel rattan beneath my feet, then carpet. From the doorway I scan the desk. The phone isn’t there.
I turn around. I’m one floor away. I’m unarmed. I can’t call for help.
Glass shatters downstairs.
I shudder, knock my hip against the knob of the closet door.
The closet door.
I seize the knob. Twist. Hear the catch, pull the door open.
Charcoal darkness yawns before me. I step forward.
Inside, I wave my hand to the right, brush my fingers against a shelf. The lightbulb string bats against my forehead. Can I risk it? No—it’s too bright; it would spill into the stairwell.
I move ahead in the dark, both hands fanning out now, like I’m playing blindman’s bluff. Until one of them touches it: the cool metal of the toolbox. I feel for the latch, flick it, reach inside.
The box cutter.
I retreat from the closet, weapon in my fist, and slide the switch; the blade peeps out, glinting in a stray moonbeam. I walk to the top of the stairs, elbow tucked tight against my body, the box cutter aimed straight ahead. With my other hand I grip the banister. I put one foot forward.
And then I remember the phone in the library. The landline. Just a few yards away. I turn.
But before I can take a step, I hear another sound from downstairs: “Mrs. Fox,” someone calls. “Come join me in the kitchen.”
88
I know the voice.
The blade trembles in my hand as I make my way down the stairs, carefully, the banister smooth beneath my palm. I hear my breath. I hear my footsteps.
“That’s right. Quicker, please.”
I reach the floor, hover just outside the doorway. Inhale so deep that I cough, splutter. I try to muffle it, even though he knows I’m here.
“Come on in.”
I come on in.
Moonlight floods the kitchen, paving the countertops silver, filling the empty bottles by the window. The faucet gleams; the sink is a bright basin. Even the hardwood shines.
He’s leaning against the island, a silhouette in the white light, shadow-flat. Rubble glitters at his feet: shards and curls of glass sprayed across the floor. On the countertop beside him stands a skyline of bottles and glasses, brimming with the moon.
“Sorry for . . .”—he sweeps his arm around the room—“the mess. I didn’t want to have to go upstairs.”
I say nothing, but flex my fingers around the handle of the box cutter.
“I’ve been patient, Mrs. Fox.” Alistair sighs, turning his head to the side, so that I can see his profile edged with light: the high forehead, the steep nose. “Dr. Fox. Whatever you . . . call yourself.” His words drip with booze. He’s very drunk, I realize.
“I’ve been patient,” he repeats. “I’ve put up with a lot.” He sniffs, selects a tumbler, rolls it between his palms. “We all have, but especially me.” Now I can see him more clearly; his jacket is zippered to the collar, and he’s wearing dark gloves. My throat tightens.
Still I don’t respond. Instead I move to the light switch, reach for it.
Glass explodes inches from my outstretched hand. I jump back. “Keep the fucking lights off,” he barks.
I stand still, my fingers wrapped around the doorframe.
“Someone should’ve warned us about you.” He’s shaking his head, laughing.
I swallow. His laugh gutters, dies.
“You gave my son the key to your apartment.” He holds it up. “I’m returning it.” The key chinks as he drops it on the island. “Even if you weren’t out of your . . . goddamn mind, I wouldn’t want him spending time with a grown woman.”
“I’ll call the police,” I whisper.
He snorts. “Go ahead. Here’s your phone.” He picks it up off the counter, tosses it in his hand, once, twice.
Yes—I left it in the kitchen. And for an instant I wait for him to dash it to the floor, to hurl it against the wall; but instead he sets it back down beside the key. “The police think you’re a joke,” he says, taking a step toward me. I raise the box cutter.
“Oh!” He’s grinning. “Oh! What do you want to do with that?” Again he steps forward.
This time so do I.
“Get out of my house,” I tell him. My arm wobbles; my hand is shaking. The blade gleams in the light, a little slice of silver.
He’s stopped moving, stopped breathing.
“Who was that woman?” I ask.
And suddenly his hand lunges for my throat, seizes it. Drives me backward, so that I thud against the wall, my head cracking hard. I cry out. His fingers press into my skin.
“You’re delusional.” His breath, hot with liquor, flames against my face, stings my eyes. “Stay away from my son. Stay away from my wife.”
I’m gagging, rasping. With one hand I claw at his fingers, rake my nails across his wrist.
With the other I swing the blade toward his side.
But my aim sails wide, and the box cutter clatters to the floor. He steps on it, squeezes my throat. I croak.
“Stay the fuck away from all of us,” he breathes.
A moment passes.
Another.
My vision runs. Tears are leaking down my cheeks.