The Woman in the Window: The most exciting debut thriller of 2018. A. Finn J.
slip the sketch into a kitchen drawer, the one where I keep the good table linens. Otherwise it’d probably get stained.
“LOOK AT all those.” They’re scattered like gems across the table. “What’s that one do?”
“Which one?”
“The pink one. Octagon. No, six-agon.”
“Hexagon.”
“Fine.”
“That’s Inderal. Beta-blocker.”
She squints at it. “That’s for heart attacks.”
“Also for panic attacks. It slows your heart rate.”
“And what’s that one? The little white oval?”
“Aripiprazole. Atypical antipsychotic.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Sounds and is, in some cases. For me it’s just an add-on. Keeps me sane. Makes me fat.”
She nods. “And what’s that one?”
“Imipramine. Tofranil. For depression. Also bed-wetting.”
“You’re a bed wetter?”
“Tonight I might be.” I sip my wine.
“And that one?”
“Temazepam. Sleeping pill. That’s for later.”
She nods. “Are you supposed to be taking any of these with alcohol?”
I swallow. “Nope.”
It’s only as the pills squeeze down my throat that I remember I already took them this morning.
JANE CASTS her head back, her mouth a fountain of smoke. “Please don’t say checkmate.” She giggles. “My ego can’t take three in a row. Remember that I haven’t played in years.”
“It shows,” I tell her. She snorts, laughs, exposing a trove of silver fillings.
I inspect my prisoners: both rooks, both bishops, a chain gang of pawns. Jane has captured a single pawn and a lonely knight. She sees me looking, swats the knight onto its side. “Horse down,” she says. “Summon the vet.”
“I love horses,” I tell her.
“Look at that. Miracle recovery.” She rights the knight, strokes its marble mane.
I smile, drain the last of my red. She eases more into my glass. I watch her. “I love your earrings, too.”
She fingers one of them, then the other—a little choir of pearls in each ear. “Gift from an old boyfriend,” she says.
“Does Alistair mind you wearing them?”
She thinks about it, then laughs. “I doubt Alistair knows.” She spurs the wheel of her lighter with her thumb, kisses it to a cigarette.
“Knows you’re wearing them or knows who they’re from?”
Jane inhales, arrows smoke to one side. “Either. Both. He can be difficult.” She taps her cigarette against the bowl. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s a good man, and a good father. But he’s controlling.”
“Why’s that?”
“Dr. Fox, are you analyzing me?” she asks. Her voice is light, but her eyes are cool.
“If anything, I’m analyzing your husband.”
She inhales again, frowns. “He’s always been like that. Not very trusting. At least not with me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Oh, I was a wild child,” she says. “Dis-so-lute. That’s the word. That’s his—that’s Alistair’s word, anyway. Bad crowds, bad choices.”
“Until you met Alistair?”
“Even then. It took me a little while to clean myself up.” It couldn’t have taken that long, I think—by the looks of her, she would’ve been early twenties when she became a mother.
Now she shakes her head. “I was with someone else for a time.”
“Who was that?”
A grimace. “Was is right. Not worth mentioning. We’ve all made mistakes.”
I say nothing.
“That ended, anyhow. But my family life is still”—her fingers strum the air—“challenging. That’s the word.”
“Le mot juste.”
“Those French lessons are totally paying off.” She grits her teeth in a grin, cocking the cigarette upward.
I press her. “What makes your family life challenging?”
She exhales. A perfect wreath of smoke wobbles through the air.
“Do it again,” I say, in spite of myself. She does. I’m drunk, I realize.
“You know”—clearing her throat—“it isn’t just one thing. It’s complicated. Alistair is challenging. Families are challenging.”
“But Ethan is a good kid. And I say this as someone who knows a good kid when she sees one,” I add.
She looks me in the eye. “I’m glad you think so. I do, too.” She bats her cigarette on the lip of the bowl again. “You must miss your family.”
“Yes. Terribly. But I talk to them every day.”
She nods. Her eyes are swimming a bit; she must be drunk, too. “It’s not the same as them being here, though, is it?”
“No. Of course not.”
She nods a second time. “So. Anna. You’ll notice I’m not asking what made you this way.”
“Overweight?” I say. “Prematurely gray?” I really am soused.
She sips her wine. “Agoraphobic.”
“Well …” If we’re trading confidences, then I suppose: “Trauma. Same as anyone.” I fidget. “It got me depressed. Severely depressed. It isn’t something I like to remember.”
But she’s shaking her head. “No, no, I understand—it’s not my business. And I’m guessing you can’t invite people over for a party. I just think we need to find you some more hobbies. Besides chess and your black-and-white movies.”
“And espionage.”
“And espionage.”
I think about it. “I used to take photographs.”
“Looks as though you still do.”
That deserves a smirk. “Fair enough. But I mean outdoor photography. I enjoyed it.”
“Sort of Humans of New York stuff?”
“More like nature photography.”
“In New York City?”
“In New England. We used to go there sometimes.”
Jane turns to the window. “Look at that,” she says, pointing west, and I do: a pulpy sunset, the dregs of dusk, buildings paper-cut against the glow. A bird circles nearby. “That’s nature, isn’t it?”
“Technically. Some of it. But I mean—”
“The world is a beautiful place,” she insists, and she’s serious; her gaze is even, her voice level. Her eyes catch mine, hold them. “Don’t forget that.” She reclines, mashing her cigarette into the hollow of the bowl. “And don’t miss it.”
I fish my phone from my pocket, aim it at the glass, snap a shot. I look at Jane.
“Attagirl,”