The Woman in the Window. A. J. Finn

think about it. “I used to take photographs.”

      “Looks as though you still do.”

      That deserves a smirk. “Fair enough. But I mean outdoor photography. I enjoyed it.”

      “Sort of Humans of New York stuff?”

      “More like nature photography.”

      “In New York City?”

      “In New England. We used to go there sometimes.”

      Jane turns to the window. “Look at that,” she says, pointing west, and I do: a pulpy sunset, the dregs of dusk, buildings paper-cut against the glow. A bird circles nearby. “That’s nature, isn’t it?”

      “Technically. Some of it. But I mean—”

      “The world is a beautiful place,” she insists, and she’s serious; her gaze is even, her voice level. Her eyes catch mine, hold them. “Don’t forget that.” She reclines, mashing her cigarette into the hollow of the bowl. “And don’t miss it.”

      I fish my phone from my pocket, aim it at the glass, snap a shot. I look at Jane.

      “Attagirl,” she growls.