The Woman in the Window: A Novel

by A. J. Finn

  “You don’t know my wife!” he shouts.

  I go silent.

  “You don’t know anyone! You stay here in your house and you watch people.”

  A flush stalks the length of my neck. My hand drops to my side.

  He isn’t finished. “You’ve invented some . . . encounters with some woman who isn’t my wife and isn’t even—” I wait for the next word, the way you brace for a blow. “Isn’t even real,” he says. “And now you’re harassing my son. You’re harassing all of us.”

  The room is quiet.

  Finally Little speaks. “All right.”

  “She’s delusional,” adds Alistair. There it is. I glance at Ethan; he’s staring at the floor.

  “All right, all right,” Little repeats. “Ethan, I think it’s time for you to head home. Mr. Russell, if you could stay here—”

  But now it’s my turn.

  “Stay here,” I agree. “Maybe you can explain this.” I lift my arm again, up above my head, level with Alistair’s eyes.

  He reaches for the paper, takes it. “What is this?”

  “It’s a picture your wife drew.”

  His face goes blank.

  “When she was here. At that table.”

  “What is it?” asks Little, moving to Alistair’s side.

  “Jane drew it for me.”

  “It’s you,” Little says.

  I nod. “She was here. This proves it.”

  Alistair has collected himself. “It doesn’t prove anything,” he snaps. “No—it proves you’re so crazy that you’re actually trying to . . . fabricate evidence.” He snorts. “You’re out of your mind.”

  Ka-pow, out of your mind, I think. Rosemary’s Baby. I feel myself frown. “What do you mean, fabricate evidence?”

  “You drew this yourself.”

  Between us, Norelli speaks. “Just like you could’ve taken that photo and sent it to yourself and we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”

  I reel back, as though I’ve been punched. “I—”

  “You okay there, Dr. Fox?” Little, stepping toward me.

  The robe drops from my hand again, slithers to the floor.

  I’m swaying. The room revolves around me like a carousel. Alistair glowers; Norelli’s eyes have gone dark; Little’s hand hovers over my shoulder. Ethan hangs back, the cat still draped over his arm. They whirl past me, all of them; no one to cling to, no ground to stand on. “I didn’t draw this picture. Jane drew it. Right here.” I wag my fingers toward the kitchen. “And I didn’t take that photo. I couldn’t have taken it. I’m— Something is happening, and you’re not helping.” I can’t put it any other way. I try to seize the room; it slips from my grip. I fumble toward Ethan, reach for him, clasp his shoulder with my shaking hand.

  “Stay away from him,” Alistair explodes, but I look into Ethan’s eyes, raise my voice: “Something is happening.”

  “What’s happening?”

  We all turn as one.

  “Front door was open,” says David.

  73

  He stands framed in the doorway, hands thrust in his pockets, a battered bag slung over one shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asks again as I release my grip on Ethan.

  Norelli uncrosses her arms. “Who are you?”

  David crosses his in turn. “I live downstairs.”

  “So,” says Little, “you’re the famous David.”

  “Don’t know about that.”

  “You got a last name, David?”

  “Most people do.”

  “Winters,” I say, dredging it up from the depths of my brain.

  David ignores me. “Who are you people?”

  “Police,” Norelli answers. “I’m Detective Norelli, this is Detective Little.”

  David angles his jaw toward Alistair. “Him I know.”

  Alistair nods. “Maybe you can explain what’s wrong with this woman.”

  “Who says there’s anything wrong with her?”

  Gratitude wells within me. I feel my lungs fill. Someone’s on my side.

  Then I remember who that someone is.

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Winters?” asks Little.

  “Connecticut. On a job.” He cracks his jaw. “Why are you asking?”

  “Someone took a picture of Dr. Fox in her sleep. Around two a.m. Then emailed it to her.”

  David’s eyes flicker. “That’s messed up.” He looks at me. “Someone broke in?”

  Little doesn’t let me answer. “Can anyone confirm you were in Connecticut last night?”

  David swings one foot in front of the other. “Lady I was with.”

  “Who might that have been?”

  “Didn’t get her last name.”

  “She have a phone number?”

  “Don’t most people?”

  “We’re going to need that number,” says Little.

  “He’s the only one who could have taken that picture,” I insist.

  A beat. David’s brow creases. “What?”

  Looking at him, into those depthless eyes, I feel myself waver. “Did you take that picture?”

  He sneers. “You think I came up here and—”

  “No one thinks that,” Norelli says.

  “I do,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” David sounds almost bored. He offers his phone to Norelli. “Here. Call her. Name’s Elizabeth.” Norelli steps toward the living room.

  I can’t take another word without a drink. I leave Little’s side, head for the kitchen; behind me I hear his voice.

  “Dr. Fox says she saw a woman get assaulted across the way. In Mr. Russell’s house. Do you know anything about this?”

  “No. That why she asked me about a scream that time?” I don’t turn around; I’m already tipping wine into a tumbler. “Like I said, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” says Alistair.

  I spin to face them, the glass in my hand. “But Ethan said—”

  “Ethan, get the hell out of here,” Alistair shouts. “How many times—”

  “Calm down, Mr. Russell. Dr. Fox, I really don’t recommend that right now,” says Little, waving a finger at me. I set the tumbler on the counter, but keep my hand wrapped around it. I feel defiant.

  He turns back to David. “Have you seen anything unusual in the house across the park?”

  “His house?” asks David, glancing at Alistair, who bristles.

  “This is—” he begins.

  “No, I haven’t seen anything.” David’s bag is slipping down his shoulder; he straightens, jostles it back in place. “Haven’t been looking.”

  Little nods. “Uh-huh. And have you met Mrs. Russell?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know Mr. Russell?”

  “I hired him—” Alistair tries, but Little shows him his palm.

  “He hired me to do some work,” David says. “Didn’t meet the wife.”

  “But you had her earring in your bedroom.”

  All eyes on me.

  “I saw an earring in your bedroom,” I say, clutching my glass. “On your nightstand. Three pearls. That’s Jane Russell’s earring.”

  David sighs. “No, it’s Katherine’s.”

  “Katherine?” I say.

  He nods. “Woman I was seeing. Wasn’t even seeing her. Woman who spent the night here a few times.”

  “When was this?” asks Little.

  “Last week. What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” Norelli assures him, returning to David’s side. She puts his phone in his hand. “Elizabeth Hughes says she was with him in Darien last night from midnight until ten.”

  “Then I came straight here,” David says.

  “So why were you in his bedroom?” Norelli asks me.

  “She was snooping around,” answers David.

  I blush, fire back. “You took a box cutter from me.”

  He steps forward. I see Little tense. “You gave it to me.”


  “Yes, but then you replaced it without saying anything.”

  “Yeah, I had it in my pocket when I was going for a piss and I put it back where I got it. You’re welcome.”

  “It just so happens that you put it back right after Jane—”

  “That’s enough,” hisses Norelli.

  I lift the glass to my lips, wine sloshing against the sides. As they watch, I swig it.

  The portrait. The photograph. The earring. The box cutter. All of them knocked down, all of them burst like bubbles. There’s nothing left.

  There’s almost nothing left.

  I swallow, breathe.

  “He was in prison, you know.”

  Even as the words leave my mouth, I can’t believe I’m saying them, can’t believe I’m hearing them.

  “He was in prison,” I repeat. I feel disembodied. I go on. “For assault.”

  David’s jaw tightens. Alistair is glaring at him; Norelli and Ethan are staring at me. And Little—Little looks inexpressibly sad.

  “So why aren’t you giving him a hard time?” I ask. “I watch a woman get killed”—I flourish my phone—“and you say I’m imagining it. You say I’m lying.” I slap the phone onto the island. “I show you a picture that she drew and signed”—I point at Alistair, at the portrait in his hand—“and you say I did it myself. There’s a woman in that house who is not who she says she is, but you haven’t even bothered to check. You haven’t even tried.”

  I move forward, just a small step, but everyone else retreats, as though I’m an approaching storm, as though I’m a predator. Good. “Someone comes into my house when I’m asleep and photographs me and sends me the photo—and you blame me.” I hear the catch in my throat, the crack in my voice. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I keep going.

  “I’m not crazy, I’m not making any of this up.” I point a jittering finger at Alistair and Ethan. “I’m not seeing things that aren’t there. All this started when I saw his wife and his mother get stabbed. That’s what you should be looking into. Those are the questions you should be asking. And don’t tell me I didn’t see it, because I know what I saw.”

  Silence. They’re frozen, a tableau. Even Punch has gone still, his tail curled into a question mark.

  I wipe my face with the back of my hand, drag it across my nose. Push my hair out of my eyes. Raise the glass to my mouth, drain it.

  Little comes to life. He steps toward me, one long, slow stride, clearing half the kitchen, his eyes fastened on mine. I set the empty glass on the counter. We look at each other across the island.

  He places his hand over the top of the glass. Slides it away, as though it’s a weapon.

  “The thing is, Anna,” he says, speaking low, speaking slow, “I talked to your doctor yesterday, after you and I had our phone call.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Dr. Fielding,” he continues. “You mentioned him at the hospital. I just wanted to follow up with someone who knew you.”

  My heart goes weak.

  “He’s someone who cares about you a lot. I told him I was pretty concerned about what you’d been saying to me. To us. And I was worried about you all alone in this big house, because you told me that your family was far away and you had no one here to talk to. And—”

  —and. And. And I know what he’s about to say; and I’m so grateful that he’s the one to say it, because he’s kind, and his voice is warm, and I couldn’t bear it otherwise, I couldn’t bear it—

  But instead Norelli cuts him off. “It turns out your husband and your daughter are dead.”

  74

  No one’s ever put it like that, said those words in that order.

  Not the emergency-room doctor, who told me that Your husband didn’t make it while they tended to my bruised back, my damaged windpipe.

  Not the head RN, who forty minutes later said, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fox—she didn’t even finish the sentence, didn’t need to.

  Not the friends—Ed’s, as it happened; I learned the hard way that Livvy and I didn’t have many friends of our own—who expressed condolences, attended the funerals, followed up sparingly as the months dragged by: They’re gone, they’d say, or They’re no longer with us, or (from the brusque ones) They died.

  Not even Bina. Not even Dr. Fielding.

  Yet Norelli has done it, broken the spell, said the unsayable: Your husband and your daughter are dead.

  * * *

  They are. Yes. They didn’t make it, they’re gone, they’ve died—they’re dead. I don’t deny it.

  “But don’t you see, Anna”—now I hear Dr. Fielding speaking, almost pleading—“that’s what this is. Denial.”

  Strictly true.

  * * *

  Still:

  How can I explain? To anyone—to Little or Norelli, or to Alistair or Ethan, or to David, or even to Jane? I hear them; their voices echo inside me, outside me. I hear them when I’m overwhelmed by the pain of their absence, their loss—I can say it: their deaths. I hear them when I need someone to talk to. I hear them when I least expect it. “Guess who,” they’ll say, and I beam, and my heart sings.

  And I respond.

  75

  The words hang in the air, float there, like smoke.

  Behind Little’s shoulders, I see Alistair and Ethan, their eyes wide; I see David, his jaw dropped. Norelli, for some reason, turns her gaze to the floor.

  “Dr. Fox?”

  Little. I bring him into focus, standing across the island from me, his face bathed in full afternoon light.

  “Anna,” he says.

  I don’t move, can’t move.

  He takes a breath, holds it. Expels. “Dr. Fielding told me the story.”

  I screw my eyes shut. All I see is darkness. All I hear is Little’s voice.

  “He said a state trooper found you at the bottom of a cliff.”

  Yes. I remember his voice, that deep cry, rappelling down the face of the mountain.

  “And by that point you’d spent two nights outside. In a snowstorm. In the middle of winter.”

  Thirty-three hours, from the instant we dove off the road to the moment the chopper appeared, its rotors swirling overhead like a whirlpool.

  “He said that Olivia was still alive when they got down to you.”

  Mommy, she’d whispered as they loaded her onto the stretcher, sheathed her little body in a blanket.

  “But your husband was already gone.”

  No, he wasn’t gone. He was there, very much there, all too much there, his body cooling in the snow. Internal damage, they told me. Compounded by exposure. There was nothing you could have done differently.

  There’s so much I could have done differently.

  “That’s when your troubles started. Your problems going outside. Post-traumatic stress. Which I—I mean, I can’t imagine.”

  God, how I cowered beneath the hospital fluorescents; how I panicked in the squad car. How I collapsed, those first times leaving the house, once and twice and twice more, until at last I dragged myself back inside.

  And locked my doors.

  And shut my windows.

  And swore I’d keep myself hidden.

  “You wanted someplace safe. I get that. They found you half-frozen. You’d been through hell.”

  My fingernails gouge my palms.

  “Dr. Fielding said that you sometimes . . . hear them.”

  I squeeze my eyes tighter, straining for more dark. They aren’t—you know, hallucinations, I’d told him; I just like pretending they’re here every now and then. As a coping mechanism. I know that too much contact isn’t healthy.

  “And that you sometimes talk back.”

  Feel the sun on my neck. It’s best you don’t indulge in these conversations too often, he’d warned me. We wouldn’t want them to become a crutch.

  “See, I was a little confused, because from what you were saying it sounded like they were just someplace else.” I don’t point out that this is technically true. There’s no
fight left in me. I’m hollow as a bottle.

  “You told me that you were separated. That your daughter was with your husband.” Another technicality. I’m so tired.

  “You told me the same thing.” I open my eyes. Light douses the room now, draining the shadows. The five of them are ranged before me like chess pieces. I look at Alistair.

  “You told me that they lived somewhere else,” he says, curling his lip. He looks repulsed. I didn’t, of course—I never said they lived anywhere. I’m careful. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.

  Little reaches across the island, presses his hand onto mine. “I think that you’ve had a hell of a time. I think that you really believe you met with this lady, just like you believe you’re talking to Olivia and Ed.” There’s a tiny pause before that last word, as though he isn’t sure of Ed’s name, although maybe he’s just pacing himself. I peer into his eyes. Bottomless.

  “But what you’re thinking here isn’t real,” he says, his voice snow-soft. “And I need you to let this one go.”

  I find myself nodding. Because he’s right. I’ve gone too far. This has to stop, Alistair said.

  “You know, you’ve got people who care about you.” Little’s hand bunches my fingers together. The knuckles crackle. “Dr. Fielding. And your physical therapist.” And? I want to say. And? “And . . .” For an instant my heart leaps; who else cares about me? “. . . they want to help you.”

  I drop my gaze to the island, to my hand, nestled in his. Study the dull gold of his wedding band. Study mine.

  Quieter still now. “The doctor said—he told me that the medication you’re on can cause hallucinations.”

  And depression. And insomnia. And spontaneous combustion. But these aren’t hallucinations. They’re—

  “And maybe that’s okay by you. I know it’d be okay by me.”

  Norelli breaks in. “Jane Russell—”

  But Little lifts his other hand, without looking away from me, and Norelli stops talking.

  “She checks out,” he says. “The lady in two-oh-seven. She is who she says she is.” I don’t ask how they know. I don’t care anymore. So, so tired. “And this lady you thought you met—I think you . . . didn’t.”

  To my surprise, I feel myself nod. But then how . . .