“Don’t you get lonely up here by yourself?”

I wriggle from sleep as a voice questions me, male, flat. I unpaste my eyelids.

“I was born lonely, I guess.” A woman now. Creamy contralto.

Light and shadow flicker in my vision. It’s Dark Passage—Bogie and Bacall making bedroom eyes across a coffee table.

“Is that why you visit murder trials?”

On my own coffee table stand the remnants of my dinner: two drained-hollow bottles of merlot and four canisters of pills.

“No. I went because your case was like my father’s.”

I swat at the remote beside me. Swat again.

“I know he didn’t kill my stepmoth—” The TV goes dark, and the living room with it.

How much have I drunk? Right: two bottles’ worth. Plus lunchtime. That’s . . . a lot of wine. I can admit it.

And the drugs: Did I take the right quantity this morning? Did I take the right pills? I’ve been sloppy lately, I know. No wonder Dr. Fielding thinks I’m getting worse. “You’ve been bad,” I chide myself.

I peek into the canisters. One of them is almost depleted; twin tablets crouch within it, little white pellets, at either side of the bottle.

God, I’m very drunk.

I look up, look at the window. Dark outside, deep night. I cast about for my phone, can’t find it. The grandfather clock, looming in the corner, ticks as though trying to get my attention. Nine fifty. “Nine fiffy,” I say. Not great. Try ten to ten. “Ten to ten.” Better. I nod to the clock. “Thanks,” I tell him. He gazes at me, all solemn-like.

Lurching toward the kitchen now. Lurching—isn’t that how Jane Russell described me, that day at the door? Those little shits with their eggs? Lurch. From The Addams Family. The gangly butler. Olivia loves that theme song. Snap, snap.

I grasp the faucet, duck my head beneath it, jerk the handle toward the ceiling. A whip of white water. Plunge my mouth forth, gulp deeply.

Drag one hand along my face, totter back to the living room. My eyes wander across the Russells’ house: There’s the ghost-glow of Ethan’s computer, with the kid bent over the desk; there’s the empty kitchen. There’s their parlor, merry and bright. And there’s Jane, in a snow-white blouse, sitting on that striped love seat. I wave. She doesn’t see me. I wave again.

She doesn’t see me.

One foot, then the other, then the first foot. Then the other—don’t forget the other. I melt into the sofa, loll my head on my shoulder. Shut my eyes.

What happened to Lizzie? Did I say something wrong? I feel myself frown.

The cranberry bog stretches before me, shimmery, shifting. Olivia’s hand takes my own.

The ice bucket smashes on the floor.

I’ll watch the rest of the movie.

I open my eyes, unearth the remote from beneath me. The speakers exhale organ music, and there’s Bacall, playing peekaboo over her shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” she vows. “Hold your breath, cross your fingers.” The surgery scene—Bogie doped up, specters revolving before him, an unholy carousel. “It’s in your bloodstream now.” The organ drones. “Let me in.” Agnes Moorehead, rapping at the camera lens. “Let me in.” A flame wavers—“Light?” suggests the cabbie.

Light. I turn my head, look into the Russell house. Jane is still in her living room, on her feet now, shouting silently.

I swivel in my seat. Strings, a fleet of them, the organ shrilling beneath. I can’t see who she’s shouting at, or at whom she’s shouting—the wall of the house blocks my view of the rest of the room.

“Hold your breath, cross your fingers.”

She’s really bellowing, her face gone scarlet. I spy my Nikon on the kitchen counter.

“It’s in your bloodstream now.”

I rise from the sofa, cross to the kitchen, paw the camera with one hand. Move to the window.

“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.”

I lean into the glass, lift the camera to my eye. A blur of black, and then Jane jumps into view, soft around the edges; a twist of the lens and now she’s clear, crisp—I can even see her locket winking. Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth wide. She jabs the air with one finger—“Light?”—jabs again. A lock of hair has swung from her head, flopping against her cheek.

Just as I zoom in further, she storms to the left, out of sight.

“Hold your breath.” I turn to the television. Bacall again, almost purring. “Cross your fingers,” I say along with her. I face the window again, Nikon at my eye.

Once more Jane enters the frame—but walking slowly, strangely. Staggering. A dark patch of crimson has stained the top of her blouse; even as I watch, it spreads to her stomach. Her hands scrabble at her chest. Something slender and silver has lodged there, like a hilt.

It is a hilt.

Now the blood surges up to her throat, washes it with red. Her mouth has gone slack; her brow is creased, as though she’s confused. She grips the hilt with one hand, limply. With the other she reaches out, her finger aimed toward the window.

She’s pointing straight at me.

I drop the camera, feel it rappel down my leg, the strap snagging in my fingers.

Jane’s arm folds against the window. Her eyes are wide, pleading. She mouths something I can’t hear, can’t read. And then, as time slows to a near halt, she presses her hand to the window and keels to one side, wiping a bold smear of blood across the glass.

I’m stricken where I stand.

I can’t move.

The room is still. The world is still.

And then, as time lurches forward, I move.

I spin, shake the camera strap loose, lunge across the room, my hip butting into the kitchen table. I stumble, reach the counter, wrench the landline from its dock. Press the power button.

Nothing. Dead.

Somewhere I remember David telling me as much. It isn’t even plugged—

David.

I drop the phone and race to the basement door, yell his name, yell it, yell it. Seize the doorknob, pull hard.

Nothing.

Run to the stairs. Up, up—crashing against the wall—once—twice—round the landing, trip on the final step, half crawl to the study.

Check the desk. No phone. I swear I left it here.

Skype.

My hands jumping, I reach for the mouse, streak it over the desk. Double-click on Skype, double-click again, hear the sweep of the welcome tone, bash 911 into the dial pad.

A red triangle flashes on the screen. no emergency calls. skype is not a telephone replacement service.

“Fuck you, Skype,” I shout.

Flee the study, rush the steps, whip around the landing, crash through the bedroom door.

Near bedside table: wineglass, picture frame. Far bedside table: two books, reading glasses.

My bed—is it in my bed again? I grab the duvet with both hands, snap it hard.

The phone launches into the air like a missile.

I pounce before it lands, knock it beneath the armchair, reach for it, grip it tight in my hand, swipe it on. Tap in the passcode. It trembles. Wrong code. Tap it in again, my fingers slipping.

The home screen appears. I stab the Phone icon, stab the Keypad icon, dial 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My neighbor,” I say, braking, motionless for the first time in ninety seconds. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.”

“Ma’am, slow down.” He’s speaking slowly, as if by example, in a languid Georgia drawl. It’s jarring. “What’s your address?”

I squeeze it from my brain, from my throat, stammering. Through the window I can see the Russells’ cheery parlor, that arc of blood smeared across their window like war paint.

He repeats the address.

“Yes. Yes.”

“And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

“Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said help.” Why isn’t he helping? I gulp air, cough, gulp once more.

“Help is on the way, ma’am. I need you to calm down. Could you give me your name?”

“Anna Fox.”

“All right, Anna. What’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Jane Russell. Oh, God.”

“Are you with her now?”

“No. She’s across—she’s in the house across the park from me.”

“Anna, did . . .”

He’s pouring words in my ear like syrup—what kind of emergency dispatch service hires a slow talker?—when I feel a brush at my ankle. I look down to find Punch rubbing his flank against me.

“What?”

“Did you stab your neighbor?”

In the dark of the window I can see my mouth drop open. “No.”

“All right.”

“I looked through the window and saw her get stabbed.”

“All right. Do you know who stabbed her?”

I’m squinting through the glass, peering into the Russells’ parlor—it’s a story below me now, but I see nothing on the floor except a floral-print rug. I brace myself on my toes, strain my neck.

Still nothing.

And then it appears: a hand at the windowsill.

Creeping upward, like a soldier edging his head above the trench. I watch the fingers swipe at the glass, drag lines through the blood.

She’s still alive.

“Ma’am? Do you know who—”

But already I’m bolting from the room, the phone dropped, the cat mewling behind me.