The blinds, I see, are up.

The house gawks at me, wide-eyed, as though surprised to find me looking back. I zoom in, pan the windows with my gaze, focus on the parlor.

Spotless. Nothing. The love seat. The lamps like guardsmen.

Shifting in the window seat, I swerve the lens up toward Ethan’s room. He’s gargoyle-perched at his desk, in front of his computer.

I zoom further. I can practically make out the text on the screen.

Movement on the street. A car, glossy as a shark, cruises into a spot in front of the Russells’ walk, parks. The driver’s door fans out like a fin, and Alistair emerges in a winter coat.

He strides toward the house.

I snap a photo.

When he reaches the door, I snap another.

I don’t have a plan. (Do I ever have a plan anymore, I wonder?) It’s not as though I’ll see his hands rinsed in blood. He won’t knock on my door and confess.

But I can watch.

He enters the house. My lens jumps to the kitchen, and sure enough, he appears there a moment later. Slaps the keys on the counter, shrugs off his coat. Leaves the room.

Doesn’t return.

I move the camera one floor up, to the parlor.

And as I do, she appears, light and bright in a spring-green pullover: “Jane.”

I adjust the lens. She goes crisp, sharp, as she moves first to one lamp, then the other, switching them on. I watch her fine hands, her long neck, the sweep of her hair against her cheek.

The liar.

Then she leaves, slim hips shifting as she walks out the door.

Nothing. The parlor is empty. The kitchen is empty. Upstairs, Ethan’s chair sits vacant, the computer screen a black box.

The phone rings.

My head swivels, almost back to front, like an owl, and the camera drops to my lap.

The sound is behind me, but my phone is by my hand.

It’s the landline.

Not the kitchen landline, rotting downstairs in its dock, but the one in Ed’s library. I’d forgotten it entirely.

It rings again, distant, insistent.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Who’s calling me? No one’s called the house phone in . . . I can’t remember. Who would even have this number? I can barely remember it myself.

Another ring.

And another.

I shrivel against the glass, wilt there in the cold. I imagine the rooms of my house, one by one, throbbing with that noise.

Another ring.

I look across the park.

She’s there, in the parlor window, a phone at her ear.

Looking right at me, hard.

I scuttle from my seat, grip the camera in one hand, retreat to my desk. She holds her gaze, her mouth a terse line.

How did she get this number?

But then how did I get hers? Directory assistance. I think of her dialing, speaking my name, asking to be connected. To me. Invading my house, my head.

The liar.

I watch her. I glare.

She glares back.

One more ring.

And then another sound—Ed’s voice.

“You’ve reached Anna and Ed,” he says, low and rough, like a movie-trailer announcer. I remember him recording the message; “You sound like Vin Diesel,” I told him, and he laughed, and pitched his voice lower still.

“We’re away right now, but leave us a message and we’ll get right back to you.” And I remember how as soon as he’d finished, as soon as he’d pressed the Stop button, he’d added, in a god-awful Cockney accent, “When we bloody feel like it.”

For an instant, I close my eyes, picture him calling to me.

But it’s her voice that fills the air, fills the house.

“I think you know who I am.” A pause. I open my eyes, find her looking at me, watch her mouth shape the words boring into my ears. The effect is uncanny. “Stop photographing our house or I’ll call the police.”

She removes the phone from her ear, slips it into her pocket. Stares at me. I stare back.

All is silent.

Then I leave the room.