The message appears on my desktop screen with a chirp. I set my glass to one side, suspend my chess game. I’m 3–0 since Bina left. A banner day.

I laugh. LOL, I type, but then I delete it.

I laugh again.

That might not be true, but for Lizzie’s sake, I hope otherwise.

I smile. She hasn’t quite mastered it.

She logs out, and I feel radiant. “I may do some good before I am dead.” —Jude, Part Sixth, Chapter 1.

Five o’clock and all’s well. I finish my match (4–0!), sip the last of my wine, and walk downstairs to the television. A Hitchcock doubleheader tonight, I think as I open the DVD cabinet; maybe Rope (underrated) and Strangers on a Train (criss-cross!). Both starring gay actors—I wonder if that’s why I paired them. I’m still on my analyst’s kick. “Criss-cross,” I say to myself. I’ve been monologuing a lot lately. Stick a pin in that for Dr. Fielding.

Or perhaps North by Northwest.

Or The Lady Vanish—

A scream, raw and horrorstruck, torn from the throat.

I spin toward the kitchen windows.

The room is silent. My heart drums.

Where did it come from?

Waves of honeyed evening light outside, wind shifting in the trees. Was it from the street or—

And then again, dredged from the deep, shredding the air, full-blooded and frenzied: that scream. Coming from number 207. The parlor windows gape, the curtains restless in the breeze. Warm out today, Bina had said. You should open a window.

I stare at the house, my eyes flicking between the kitchen and parlor, swerving up to Ethan’s bedroom, back to the kitchen.

Is he attacking her? Very controlling.

I don’t have their number. I wriggle my iPhone from my pocket, drop it on the floor—“Fuck.”—and dial directory assistance.

“What address?” Sullen. I answer; a moment later an automated voice recites ten digits, offers to repeat them in Spanish. I hang up, punch the number into the phone.

A ring, purring in my ear.

Another ring.

A third.

A fo—

“Hello?”

Ethan. Shaky, quiet. I scan the side of the house, but can’t find him.

“It’s Anna. Across the park.”

A sniffle. “Hi.”

“What’s going on there? I heard a scream.”

“Oh. No—no.” He coughs. “It’s fine.”

“I heard someone scream. Was that your mom?”

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “He just lost his temper.”

“Do you need help?”

A pause. “No.”

Two tones stutter in my ear. He’s hung up.

His house looks at me neutrally.

David—David’s over there today. Or has he returned? I rap on the basement door, call his name. For an instant I fear that a stranger will open the door, explain sleepily that David’s due back in a little while and would you mind if I went back to bed, thanks so much.

Nothing.

Did he hear it? Did he see it? I ring his number.

Four tones, long and unhurried, then a generic recorded greeting: “We’re sorry. The person you have called . . .” A woman’s voice—always a woman. Maybe we sound more apologetic.

I press Cancel. Stroke the phone as though it’s a magic lamp and a genie will spout forth, ready to dispense his wisdom, grant my wishes.

Jane screamed. Twice. Her son denied that anything was wrong. I can’t summon the police; if he wouldn’t come clean to me, he certainly won’t say anything to men in uniform.

My nails carve sickles into my palm.

No. I need to speak to him again—or better still, to her. I jab the Recent button on my screen, press the Russells’ number. It rings just once before it’s picked up.

“Yes?” says Alistair in his pleasant tenor.

I catch my breath.

I look up: There he is, in the kitchen, phone at his ear. A hammer in his other hand. He doesn’t see me.

“This is Anna Fox from number two-thirteen. We met last—”

“Yes, I remember. Hello.”

“Hello,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. “I heard a scream just now, so I wanted to check on—”

Turning his back to me, he places the hammer on the counter—the hammer; was that what alarmed her?—and claps his hand to the nape of his neck, as if he’s comforting himself. “Sorry—you heard a what?” he asks.

I hadn’t expected this. “A scream?” I say. No: Make it authoritative. “A scream. A minute ago.”

“A scream?” Like it’s a foreign word. Sprezzatura. Schadenfreude. Scream.

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“From your house.” Turn around. I want to see your face.

“That’s . . . there’s been no scream here, I can promise you that.” I hear him chuckle, watch him lean against the wall.

“But I heard it.” And your son confirmed it, I think, although I won’t tell him that—it might aggravate him, might incense him.

“I think you must have heard something else. Or heard it from somewhere else.”

“No, I distinctly heard it from your house.”

“The only people here are myself and my son. I didn’t scream, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t, either.”

“But I heard—”

“Mrs. Fox, I’m so sorry, but I have to go—I’ve got another call coming in. Everything’s fine here. No scream, I promise you!”

“You—”

“Have a good day. Enjoy the weather.”

I watch him hang up, hear those two tones again. He lifts the hammer from the counter, leaves the room through a far door.

I gawk at my phone in disbelief, as if it might explain things to me.

And just then, as I look back toward the Russell house, I see her on her front stoop. She stands still for a moment, like a meerkat sensing a predator, before descending the steps. Twists her head that way, then this, then that way again; finally she walks west, toward the avenue, the crown of her head a halo in the sunset.