The Woman in the Window byA.J. Finn – book review

The Woman in the Window byA.J. Finn – book review

The woman in the window

Anna Fox lives alone, a recluse in her New York City home, unable to venture outside. She spends her day drinking wine (maybe too much), watching old movies, recalling happier times . . . and spying on her neighbors.

Then the Russells move into the house across the way: a father, a mother and their teenage son. The perfect family. But when Anna, gazing out her window one night, sees something she shouldn’t, her world begins to crumble and its shocking secrets are laid bare.

What is real? What is imagined? Who is in danger? Who is in control? In this diabolically gripping thriller, no one—and nothing—is what it seems.

Overall

After a situation with her family, Dr. Anna Fox becomes Agoraphobic. If like me, you don’t know what it means, it is basically the opposite of claustrophobia. It is the fear of the outside, especially open spaces I assume.

From a conceptual point of view, it was a good idea. The execution however, especially in the middle was poor.

I found Anna to be an interesting although creepy character. The book literally opens with her spying on her neighbours. While the method to her madness (see what I did there) is eventually explained, it is disturbing none the less.

Locked-in syndrome. Causes include stroke, brain stem injury, MS, even poison. It’s a neurological condition, in other words, not a psychological one. Yet here I am, utterly, literally locked in—doors closed, windows shut, while I shy and shrink from the light, and a woman is stabbed across the park, and no one notices, no one knows. Except me—me, swollen with booze, parted from her family, fucking her tenant. A freak to the neighbors. A joke to the cops. A special case to her doctor. A pity case to her physical therapist. A shut-in. No hero. No sleuth.

Characterisation

Anna Fox is not okay, and she is clearly a lonely woman. That is the only way to explain how she spies on her neighbours with a camera, or how she looks up old clients on the internet.

Making Anna a psychologist was a good move on Finn’s part. We know Anna knows something is wrong with her, and when she doesn’t, she is able to rationalise her behaviour. She also reminds me of the old anecdote ‘a doctor can’t cure himself.’ Knowing mixing boos and medication is unhealthy doesn’t stop her.

h2>Plot

While I think what Finn tried was interesting, it takes a while getting there. There were many points I thought I knew what the resolution would be, and I was ready to DNF. Misdirection is a staple of the genre. I cannot help think it must be accompanied by doubts as well. As the reader, if I don’t doubt the expected resolution, there is nothing stopping me from ditching the book.

I certainly didn’t see that ending coming. That said, the resolution is overdone. It is the generic stuff of generic serial killer novels. I expected some originality behind the apparent villain’s motivations.

Absurdities

I get that it is fiction, but that doesn’t exempt us from expecting reality. How on earth is Anna making a living. She apparently stays in a nice neighbourhood, has no problem affording a shrink and medication, and never has a shortage of boos. But she doesn’t work. It’s a small matter, yet it kept bugging me.

Another generic thing in this novel was the mentor mentee relationship. I cannot say more without giving spoilers, but another type of relationship would have made more sense. Furthermore, we are never given Anna’s motivations regarding that issue.

In short, The Woman In The Window has a great concept behind it. Unfortunately, it was poorly executed, and most of the story outside the initial concept is generic. It goes without saying, this novel was over hyped.

Favourite quotes

Of course, I’m accustomed to children in distress: weeping, shouting, pummeling dolls, flaying books. It used to be that Olivia was the only one I could hug. Now I open my arms to Ethan, spread them wide like wings, and he walks into them awkwardly, as though bumping into me.

For an instant, and then for a moment, I’m holding my daughter again—holding her before her first day of school, holding her in the swimming pool on our vacation in Barbados, clutching her amid the silent snowfall. Her heart beating against my own, a beat apart, a continuous drumline, blood surging through us both.

“You know, you’ve got people who care about you.” Little’s hand bunches my fingers together. The knuckles crackle. “Dr. Fielding. And your physical therapist.” And? I want to say. And? “And . . .” For an instant my heart leaps; who else cares about me? “. . . they want to help you.”

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Rating: **.5