At eleven sharp the doorbell rings. I wrest myself from bed, peer out the front windows. It’s Bina at the door, her black hair brilliant in the morning sun. I’d forgotten about her visiting today. I’d forgotten about her altogether.

I step back, survey the houses across the street, scanning them east-west: the Gray Sisters, the Millers, the Takedas, that abandoned double-wide. My southern empire.

The doorbell again.

I slope downstairs, cross to the hall door, see her framed within the intercom screen. Press the speaker. “I’m not feeling well today,” I say.

I watch her speak. “Should I come in?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“May I come in?”

“No. Thanks. I really need to be alone.”

She chews her lip. “Is everything okay?”

“I just need to be alone,” I repeat.

She nods. “Okay.”

I wait for her to leave.

“Dr. Fielding told me about what happened. He heard from the police.”

I say nothing, just close my eyes. A long pause.

“Well—so I’m going to see you next week,” she says. “Wednesday, like usual.”

Maybe not. “Yes.”

“And will you call me if you need anything?”

I won’t. “I will.”

I open my eyes, see her nod again. She turns, walks down the steps.

That’s done. First Dr. Fielding, now Bina. Anyone else? Oui: Yves tomorrow. I’ll write him to cancel. Je ne peux pas . . .

I’ll do it in English.

Before returning to the stairwell, I fill Punch’s food and water bowls. He trots over, dips his tongue into his Fancy Feast, then pricks his ears—the pipes are gurgling.

David, downstairs. I haven’t thought about him in a while.

I pause by the basement door, grasp the stepladder, move it to one side. I knock on the door, call his name.

Nothing. I call it again.

This time I hear footsteps. I flip the lock and raise my voice.

“I’ve unlocked the door. You can come up. If you want,” I add.

Before I’ve finished, the door opens, and he stands before me, two steps down, in a snug T-shirt and balding jeans. We look at each other.

I speak first. “I wanted to—”

“I’m clearing out,” he says.

I blink.

“Things got . . . weird.”

I nod.

He rummages in his back pocket, pulls out a slip of paper. Hands it to me.

I accept it wordlessly, unfold it.

I nod again. I hear the tick of the grandfather clock across the room.

“Well,” I say.

“Here’s the key,” he says, offering it to me. “Door’ll lock behind me.”

I take it from him. Another pause.

He looks me in the eye. “That earring.”

“Oh, you don’t need—”

“It belonged to a lady named Katherine. Like I said. I don’t know that Russell guy’s wife.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Now he nods. And closes the door.

I leave it unlocked.

Back in my bedroom, I send Dr. Fielding a terse text: I’m fine. See you Tuesday. He calls me immediately. The phone rings on, rings out.

Bina, David, Dr. Fielding. I’m clearing house.

I pause in the doorway of the master bath, eyeing the shower the way one might appraise a painting at a gallery; not for me, I decide, or at least not today. I select a robe (must wash the stained one, I remind myself, although by now that splash of wine will be tattooed into the fabric) and wander down to the study.

It’s been three days since I sat at my computer. I grip the mouse, slide it to one side. The screen lights up, prompts me for the password. I enter it.

Once again I see my sleeping face.

I rock back in the chair. All this time it’s been lurking behind the dark of the screen, an ugly secret. My hand strikes the mouse like a snake: I whip the cursor to the corner, click the picture shut.

Now I’m looking at the email it was smuggled in. guesswhoanna.

Guess who. I don’t recall doing this, this—what was it Norelli said? “Little midnight selfie”? Hand to heart, I’ve no memory. Yet those are my words, our words; and David has an alibi (an alibi—I’ve never before known anyone with, or for that matter without, an alibi); and no one else could have accessed the bedroom. No one’s Gaslight-ing me.

. . . Only wouldn’t the photograph still be in my camera roll?

I frown.

Yes, it would. Unless I thought to delete it, but . . . well. But.

My Nikon is perched on the edge of my desk, strap dangling off the side. I reach for it, drag it toward me. Switch it on and inspect the photo cache.

The most recent picture: Alistair Russell, wrapped in a winter coat, hopping up the front steps of his house. Dated Saturday, November 6. Nothing since. I switch the camera off, set it on the desk.

But then the Nikon is too bulky for selfies, in any case. I pull my phone from the pocket of my robe, enter the passcode, tap the Photos icon.

And there it is, first up: that same shot, shrunk within the iPhone screen. The open mouth, the loose hair, the bulging pillow—and the time stamp: 02:02 a.m.

No one else has the passcode.

There’s one more test, but already I know the answer.

I open the web browser, type in gmail.com. It loads instantly, the username field filled in: guesswhoanna.

I really did this to myself. Guess who. Anna.

And it had to be me. No one else knows the computer password. Even if someone else was in the house—even if David had made his way in here—I’m the only one with the code.

My head lists toward my lap.

I swear I don’t remember any of it.