Too Far

by Jason Starr

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  Normally the vaguely demeaning subtext of his comments would’ve pissed me off and ruined my whole day, but today I refused to let the negativity affect me. I was in such a great mood today that nothing could bring me down. After all, I was meeting Sophie later – FUGITIVE_RED herself! This was going to be the best day of my life.

  Trying to stick to a seemingly normal routine, I had a banal text exchange with Maria. I reminded her that I was going to an AA meeting later, then out to dinner with friends and that she’d pick up Jonah at Leo’s apartment.

  She replied: K K

  The afternoon dragged. As I tried to work, I couldn’t stop checking the time on the lower right-hand corner of my monitor. Although I didn’t have to meet Sophie until six o’clock, I left my office at about four fifteen.

  The townhouse was in Kips Bay, about forty blocks from my office. I could’ve taken the subway or bus, but I had time to kill and lots of pent-up energy so I walked instead. I was so absorbed in my fantasies – imagining what it would be like to see her for the first time, and hold her, kiss her – that time got disjointed and I just seemed to wind up in midtown and I barely remembered walking there. I still had time to kill, so I went to a coffee bar and checked out some of the newer rock bands on YouTube and Spotify. I used to feel plugged into the business, but over the past few years I’d fallen behind. I was eager to get back into music for real, though, perhaps even suggest jamming with Sophie sometime. I imagined Sophie and I going upstate together for a weekend, getting a cabin by the lake, and spending the weekend jamming, laughing, and having amazing sex.

  I continued downtown.

  At ten to six, I arrived on the corner of her block on 32nd Street. I wondered if Sophie had arrived at the townhouse already. We hadn’t exchanged cell numbers so I couldn’t text her and I didn’t have her actual email either. I considered messengering her via Discreet Hookups, but decided against it. We already had made the plan, so what was the point? I did check to see if she had messaged me though, in case she’d had to change the plan for some reason. She hadn’t messaged me, so I assumed this was it – she was there.

  On 32nd Street, I passed a schoolyard and was approaching the townhouse. Paranoid, I looked around in every direction, to make sure no one I knew happened to be passing by. In New York that sort of coincidence was incredibly unlikely, but I had to look anyway.

  Then I thought, What the hell am I doing?

  For a few minutes, I just stood there totally confused, as if I’d passed out and regained consciousness. The idea of having a safe, guiltless affair was ridiculous. I wasn’t a philanderer; I wasn’t Rob McEvoy. I couldn’t go off and casually cheat on my wife and manage to pull off that kind of deception. I was a horrible liar. Maria probably already suspected something was going on, and if I actually cheated on her, she’d know right away. An affair wouldn’t save my marriage; it would destroy it.

  And how could I do this to her, the mother of our son? I had my issues with her, but she’d stood by me through my darkest times, and this was how I was going to repay her?

  Then I reminded myself how my marriage actually was on a daily basis, how I hadn’t been happy in years, and how invigorated I’d felt while chatting with Sophie online. Thinking about it this way it seemed crazy not to go. Besides, nothing had to happen today. This was just a first meeting – like a first date really. I could check her out and if anything seemed off about the situation, I could always bail. If things went great and we wound up having sex, it didn’t necessarily mean my marriage would be over. It could be a one-time thing, a fling, and it could force us to deal with marital issues head on. I could rededicate myself to my marriage, convince Maria that we needed counseling, or I could decide that I’d done everything I could possibly do to try to save the marriage and move on. Either way, the important thing I had to remember was that I was in total control – I was the driver of my life, not the passenger.

  I believed all of this – well, maybe for ten seconds or so. Then I decided I was full of shit.

  An affair was a huge mistake that I didn’t want to make. I had to do the mature, adult thing and go home to my family and try to work things out the right way. But I couldn’t just take off, not without giving Sophie some kind of explanation.

  I continued down the block, proud of myself for finally making the right decision, and headed up the stoop to the front door of the townhouse. I’d apologize to Sophie, tell her that it had been a blast getting to know her, and that if things didn’t work out in our marriages, I’d love to get to know her better, but right now this was the right thing to do. She’d be disappointed, but she’d understand.

  My mind was made up; I felt so mature, so logical. Why couldn’t I have had this revelation a week ago?

  As I’d expected, the door was open, slightly ajar. I entered, blown away by how gorgeous the place was. I’d expected a townhouse worth millions to be nice inside, but somehow, from my chat sessions with Sophie, I’d expected the place to have an offbeat, Bohemian vibe. Instead it was full-throttle upscale. A large foyer with a winding staircase going up. Going by the new floors and new crown molding, the place seemed to have undergone a renovation recently.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  As I went further inside I smelled perfume – her perfume, I figured – and suddenly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist her after all.

  ‘Hello?’ I said again.

  No answer.

  I continued through the downstairs of the townhouse. The place was nice all right – way nicer than I’d expected. The dining room had an elegant table that could easily sit ten people, and the kitchen had been totally redone with an island with a sink and new appliances. Brian at my agency had sold a similar property, also in Kips Bay, for close to four million last year and this one was in better shape. It could get six and change, maybe seven.

  I checked the kitchen, but she wasn’t there, and then, looking up, I noticed that a light was on upstairs.

  ‘Sophie… Sophie, are you there?’

  Still nothing.

  As I headed up the spiral staircase, the scent of her perfume was getting stronger and I was getting weaker. I knew what was going to happen next. I’d go into the bedroom and she’d be there, waiting for me. I flashed back to our sexting, the things she’d said she wanted to do with me. I’d try to be strong; I’d try not to give in. I’d explain to her all the reasons why this was a bad idea, why it would screw up our lives.

  But what if I couldn’t resist? I’d never had self-restraint. Who was I kidding?

  The second floor had a wide hallway and my feet creaked the long floorboards. I passed a bathroom and what looked like a guest bedroom.

  ‘Sophie?’

  I continued to the end of the hallway, toward another room. The door was a few inches ajar and a light was on.

  When I first began performing live music, I’d suffered from awful stage fright. Sometimes the anxiety got so bad that I couldn’t even move, no less perform. Though my terror never fully subsided, I managed to deal with the issue well enough to get through my gigs.

  I felt the same way now. My breath got short and my pulse throbbed, but I forced myself to fight through it.

  I entered the bedroom and sure enough she was lying in bed. Jesus, a woman I liked, whom I’d connected with, was waiting for me in bed. I couldn’t turn back now; I’d come too far.

  The scent of her perfume was so intense, so overwhelming, that at first I wasn’t really aware of anything else. Then I saw that there was something weird about her mouth – her jaw was sagging – and something was wrong with her face too. It was too pale, and her eyes were wide open – and she was wearing a bright red tie.

  Then I realized she wasn’t wearing the tie.

  Somebody had strangled her with it.

  9

  I stared at her for a long time – thi
rty seconds, a minute, or it could’ve been longer. Time was distorted; it was hard to be sure about anything. My legs were weak and I felt unsteady, like I was trying to balance myself on the deck of a boat in rough water.

  Then I thought I saw her chest move.

  Snapping into action, I loosened the tie and tried to give her mouth-to-mouth. I’d taken a CPR class before Jonah was born, but under pressure I couldn’t remember how to do it. Were you supposed to breathe five times? Three times? And when were you supposed to pump the chest? Anyway, her lips were stiff and cold and whatever I was doing obviously wasn’t working. I tried to loosen the tie, but it was wound too tight. Going by how cold and stiff her lips were, I’d probably made a mistake; I hadn’t seen her chest move and she’d been dead all along. After a couple of breaths, I backed away again, shaking.

  Then I saw the blood on my hands.

  I was confused for a few seconds; where the hell had blood come from? Then I saw some blood on her head, near the pillow. I must’ve gotten the blood on me when I gave her CPR.

  I rushed to the bathroom and rinsed the blood off my hands, watching the pink water spiral down the drain. I scrubbed my hands too, to get rid of any perfume scent.

  Then I went out to the hallway. Several seconds went by, maybe longer, and I just stood there. In shock, I guess. Then a terrifying thought hit: How did I know that the killer wasn’t still here?

  I listened, didn’t hear anything, then realized how pointless this was. If someone was here, what was I going to do, get into a conversation?

  I went down the stairs as fast as if I’d jumped from the top of the landing. But at the front door I stopped, telling myself, You can’t just leave.

  A woman had been killed; a woman whom I knew had been killed. This was a crime scene now. If I ran away, it would be like a hit and run. Even though I was innocent, if I left now I’d be committing a crime. Besides, my prints and hair fibers and whatever else were probably in the house, maybe even on her body. From the CPR, my saliva was on her mouth. And what about the blood? I probably still had some on me.

  No, I couldn’t leave now. I had to do the right thing and call the police.

  In the vestibule, still trembling, I punched in 911 from my cell.

  ‘Nine one one, what’s your emergency?’

  My lips started to move, then I ended the call.

  From the moment I’d seen the body till the moment I’d heard the operator’s voice, I’d been reacting, not really thinking, but now it all clicked – I realized what deep shit I was in.

  The woman I’d met online and had arranged to meet for a sex date had been strangled to death. When the police came I’d be questioned; I might even be a suspect. Then Maria would find out that I’d met the woman online – on Discreet Hookups no less – and any hope for a ‘good divorce’ would be officially shot. There would be no convincing lie to tell, no way to explain it all away. Although nothing had actually happened – I didn’t kill this woman and I didn’t have an affair with her – there was no way she’d believe this. She’d want a divorce and, if I was a murder suspect, I’d almost certainly lose custody of Jonah.

  I hated myself for making the bad decisions that had gotten me to this point, for fucking up my life all over again.

  Then I heard a voice inside me, shouting, Run! Get the hell out!

  But I couldn’t run – running would only bury me deeper.

  On Discreet Hookups, there were records, chat transcripts, of all my interactions with Sophie. Even if I deleted my account and the police never found any record of the chats, I wouldn’t be safe. Sophie had told me that she’d kept our relationship a secret, but what if this wasn’t true? What if her closest friends knew all about us?

  I called 911 again and, as calmly as I could, said, ‘I want to report a dead body,’ and I told her the address on East 32nd Street.

  ‘How did the person die?’ the female operator asked.

  ‘Murdered.’ I was so scared I was shivering. ‘I mean, I think she was murdered. I mean, strangled. Or maybe hit on the head.’

  ‘Help is on the way,’ the operator asked. ‘Are you still inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Is there anyone with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it possible for you to go outside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I left the townhouse.

  ‘I want you to go outside,’ the operator said.

  ‘Okay, I’m outside,’ I said.

  The cool, fall air taunted me, like the air in a prison yard.

  ‘Help will arrive soon,’ the operator said. ‘Can you stay on the line with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  As the operator continued to talk to me, trying to keep me calm, it registered that Sophie was dead, actually dead. I didn’t actually know her, but it felt like I’d known her, like I’d lost a friend. I saw flashes of the bright red tie around her neck, the blood on my hands, and her wide open eyes, and queasiness hit, like I was discovering her body all over again.

  Who the hell had done this to her? Why?

  The answer to question one was so obvious that if I hadn’t been so busy, worrying about my own situation, it would’ve occurred to me immediately.

  Her husband had killed her.

  I was still in shock and scattered and it was hard to think clearly, but her husband – it had to have been him. She’d said he was abusive, that there had been problems in their marriage for a long time. Besides, it was always the husband. He must’ve followed her here and –

  Shit, the front door. I remembered it had been ajar when I’d arrived. I’d assumed Sophie had left it like that, but her husband could’ve forced his way in and dragged her into the bedroom. He killed her and then took off quickly without bothering to close the door. But he must’ve left at least a couple of minutes before I’d arrived, or I would’ve seen him.

  Unless…

  I glanced at the house; curtains covered the windows downstairs so I couldn’t see inside. Was it possible that he was still in there, hiding somewhere?

  Then I heard a siren, increasing in volume, and a few seconds later saw the police car turn onto 32nd Street. It stopped in front of the townhouse. Two officers got out – a young, muscular Latino and a blond, stocky woman. Although I knew there was nothing funny about any of this, as the officers approached me, I realized I was smiling. A nervous smile overcompensating for panic and fear, but, still, probably not the best first impression to make to the police at the scene of a murder. My expression could have easily been misinterpreted as a crazed, shit-eating grin.

  ‘We got a call about a possible homicide,’ the woman said.

  ‘Yes, that was me.’ Shit, that’s not what I’d meant to say. ‘I mean, I made the call. She’s inside, second-floor bedroom.’

  ‘You discovered the body?’ the Latino asked.

  I looked at his name tag: Jimenez. The woman was Riley.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jimenez asked. ‘Neighbor?’

  ‘Friend,’ I said.

  ‘Does the vic live in the house?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean, sort of. It’s a, um… second residence.’

  ‘There anybody else in the house right now?’ Jimenez asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so. The door was open when I got here. Maybe he left.’

  ‘He?’ Jimenez asked.

  ‘I think her husband killed her,’ I said.

  I knew I was talking too much, but I was nervous and couldn’t help it.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ he said.

  ‘Because she said he was abusive, he was beating the shit out of her.’

  ‘When did she tell you this?’

  ‘She didn’t actually tell me it, she implied it, and… it just makes se
nse, okay? He probably followed her here, or knew she was going to be here.’

  ‘She told you her husband was going to be here?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t supposed to be here, but he came anyway.’

  I realized I had no evidence to suggest her husband had killed her; it was all just speculation.

  Riley walked away up the sidewalk a little, talking into her radio, saying something I couldn’t hear.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Jimenez asked.

  ‘Jack,’ I said.

  ‘Jack what?’

  ‘Harper.’

  He was writing in a little pad.

  ‘And you discovered the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I… I tried to give her CPR… she was already dead.’

  ‘You sure she was dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Then I thought, Was I?

  ‘I mean I think so,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know there was blood until after I gave her CPR. So I washed the blood off my hands. I mean, I was shocked, and just wanted to get it off me, so…’

  ‘You washed the blood off before you called nine-one-one?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean yes. Like I said, I was in shock. I was surprised.’

  He took notes then asked, ‘How do you know the victim?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m a friend.’

  ‘And you just stopped by to say hi?’

  ‘No, she invited me.’

  Although I was telling the truth, I felt like I was lying.

  ‘Did you touch anything else in there?’

  ‘Else?’ I asked.

  ‘Besides her.’

  ‘I… I’m not sure. I… I mean probably.’

  ‘You’re not sure or probably?’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Did the vic live here or not?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean, yes. It was a second residence.’

  Another police car pulled up. Riley went to talk to the cops – an older black guy and a Latino, younger than Jimenez. Then Riley called Jimenez over and the four cops huddled.