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.”