The Woman In The Window Novels & Stories

The neighborhood lay in ruins, with rubble and dust drifting in the air. I furrowed my brows, my OCD pushing me to walk away. Just then, a hunched, filthy woman came in my way. She was wrapped in a filthy down jacket, its original color long buried beneath layers of grime. She clutched a handful of empty plastic bottles, her eyes vacant and glassy. “M-Ms. Bray?” She spoke, her voice raspy and scratchy. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her from a distance. It took a while for me to scan her bloated and wrinkly face before I recognized her to be the once arrogant Little Miss Sunshine.

“Not this time.” Ava met his gaze. “I won’t.” He nodded. “Good.” Elsewhere The facility was cold. Sterile. A woman sat by the window, wrapped in a gray shawl, watching snow fall beyond reinforced glass. Her hair had gone silver. But her eyes Her eyes were Ava’s. She closed her book as the door opened. “They’re coming,” the guard said. She smiled faintly. “I know.” “Are you afraid?” The woman shook her head. “No. I’ve been waiting.”

The city sprawled below restless, glittering, alive. A woman stood by the window, poised and graceful — the kind of beauty that didn’t fade with time, only sharpened. She looked to be in her late forties , maybe fifty at most, elegant in a silk robe the color of wine, her golden hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. There was power in her stillness — and danger in the way she smiled. She held a glass of champagne in one hand and, in the other, a photograph. Ivan’s face.

Inside it was a tiny glowing silver leaf, a small silver leaf. Maya looked back at the hospital. High up in a window a woman was standing, a woman in a coat. She wore a coat and held a giant pen, a big pen. The woman pointed the pen at the sky the sky. "If the story is over and the dream is finished then who is the woman in the window writing the words?"

My vision tunneled, the blood roaring deafeningly in my ears, my fingers digging into the fabric of the curtain until the threads strained. It wasn't a paparazzi. It wasn't one of Bradley's security goons. Sitting in the driver's seat was a woman in her late twenties, wearing a jacket, her sharp, pale face framed by unbrushed hair, a jagged scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She turned her head, looking straight up through the glass of the brownstone window, her hollow, haunted eyes locking dead onto mine. My knees nearly buckled. No. The world tilted beneath my boots.

No. I take a step forward, but Vince pulls me back. Anger flares through me and I grab the arm holding and he let’s go hissing in pain. I don’t bother seeing what just happened as I move closer to the window. I get there, rising on my tippy toes to peak through. My eyes capture on the woman… She looks so much like me, but older, more knowledgeable about life. She’s not a dumb woman; you can see it in the calculating in her eyes as she thinks over the deal. But if she’s not dumb, why can’t she see what she means by that? Why can’t she see the fact she’s talking about false love?

A woman was standing right against the floor-to-ceiling glass of Apartment 17B. She wasn't looking at the burning house down in the water. Her face was pressed close to the pane, her pale features illuminated by the reddish glow, her eyes locked straight up at me standing on my balcony. She was thin, her dark hair pulled back, her face pulled tight with something that looked like desperate, silent recognition. The moment my eyes met hers through the gloom, the woman jerked back. Her hand reached out, grabbing the heavy grey curtain, and snapped it shut, cutting off the light and burying the window in complete darkness.

Outside, the rain was a thin, glass-like sheet, blurring the distant silhouette of the London Eye into a pale, glowing ring in the mist. In the dark reflection of the window, I hardly recognized the woman looking back at me. She wore a dark silk robe, her shoulders straight, her collarbones sharp, her face smooth as carved marble. There were no tears in those dark eyes. No lingering terror from the years spent trapped in Lucian Vance’s gilded cage on the Upper East Side. No trembling hands that reached out, pleading for a crumb of warmth or a polite word from a husband who looked at her like an inconvenient tax liability.

The woman had a gun pointed at both of them. That's when I noticed something. The window behind Chris was slightly open. And there was a fire escape right outside it. "Can you create a distraction?" I whispered to Ciara. "What kind of distraction?" "Anything. Just get her attention for ten seconds." Ciara nodded and moved toward the front of the building. A moment later, I heard glass breaking somewhere downstairs, followed by a loud crash. "What was that?" the woman said, turning toward the door. I moved. I climbed through the window as quietly as possible. Chris saw me and his eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. The woman still had her back turned, trying to figure out what the noise

Their dark eyes swept the room and landed on Elena. "That's her." One out of the two Ninjas pointed at Elena and they jumped inside the room, behind them they saw many ninjas running towards the room and some were jumping down from the sky. Before their feet would touch the ground, they were sent flying out of the window by Shadows to the very surprise of the three ladies in the room. The Shadows then became a shield on the window, preventing the Ninja's from coming inside. "What's that?" Elena whispered. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it is on our side." Jess responded.