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A shut-in spends her days spying on her neighbors. One day she witnesses something terrifying ... Or does she?
Pretend you haven’t already read that the screen rights sold before it even hit bookstores, or that the author received a seven-figure advance. And ignore the comparisons—you knew they were coming—to Girl on the Train and Gone Girl. The Woman in the Window is a great psychological thriller that lives up to the months of hype it’s been getting.
Anna Fox, once a successful child psychologist, liv...
For readers of Gillian Flynn and Tana French comes one of the decade’s most anticipated debuts: a twisty, powerful Hitchcockian thriller about an agoraphobic woman who believes she witnessed a crime in a neighboring house.
It isn’t paranoia if it’s really happening ...
Anna Fox lives alone—a recluse in her New York City home, unable to venture outside. She spends her day drinking wine (maybe...
Her husband's almost home. He'll catch her this time.
There isn't a scrap of curtain, not a blade of blind, in number 212—the rust-red townhome that once housed the newlywed Motts, until recently, until they un-wed. I never met either Mott, but occasionally I check in online: his Linkedin profile, her Facebook page. Their wedding registry lives on at Macy's. I could still buy them flatware.
As I was saying: not even a window dressing. So number 212 gazes blankly across the street, ruddy and raw, and I gaze right back, watching the mistress of the manor lead her contractor into the guest bedroom. What is it about that house? It's where love goes to die.
She's lovely, a genuine redhead, with grass-green eyes and an archipelago of tiny moles trailing across her back. Much prettier than her husband, a Dr. John Miller, psychotherapist—yes, he offers couples counseling—and one of 436,000 John Millers online. This particular specimen works near Gramercy Park and does not accept insurance. According to the deed of sale, he paid $3.6 million for his house. Business must be good.
I know both more and less about his wife. Not much of a homemaker, clearly; the Millers moved in eight weeks ago, yet still those windows are bare, tsk-tsk. She practices yoga three times a week, tripping down the steps with her magic-carpet mat rolled beneath one arm, legs shrink-wrapped in Lululemon. And she must volunteer someplace—she leaves the house a little past eleven on Mondays and Fridays, around the time I get up, and returns between five and five thirty, just as I'm settling in for my nightly film. (This evening's selection: The Man Who Knew Too Much, for the umpteenth time. I am the woman who viewed too much.) I've noticed she likes a drink in the afternoon, as do I. Does she also like a drink in the morning? As do I?