I looked at Angie, shaking my head.
“An NYPD representative told the press they are interviewing a number of persons of interest.” The frame switched to footage of the 26th Precinct, where I’d spent four hours yesterday. Detective Robertson spoke over his shoulder as he walked, flanked by reporters: “We’re still waiting on the autopsy report to determine cause of death,” he said. There was a muffled question, to which he responded, “I can confirm that there were no visible signs of foul play, yes. But we’re not ruling out anything at this stage.”
The news switched to a story about a fire in Queens and I turned the television off, relieved that they hadn’t mentioned anything about me. “What’s that mean?” I said. “No visible signs.”
Angie shrugged. “I guess the body was intact. She wasn’t shot—or worse—before being dumped into the river.” I shuddered as Angie continued, “But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t pushed or drugged or—”
My stomach turned, its contents rising in my throat, and I ran to the bathroom.
“Morning sickness?” Angie shouted after me.
* * *
I’d just walked into the office when Sam called. I nodded to Caitlin, who was already out of her chair, clearly anxious to brief me about last night. I motioned to her that I needed a minute, before closing the door behind me. This was not a conversation I could risk my colleagues overhearing.
“Lana, thank goodness I got you! I’m totally freaked out. You know about Tyler, right?”
“What about him?” I snapped. The last thing I needed right now was to talk about Tyler with his sister.
“Did you not watch the news this morning? He’s been detained for questioning about that Columbia student.”
“You mean the one he was having an affair with? The one who split us up?” I said, my voice higher than I’d intended. I was suddenly livid with Katya. It wasn’t like she’d had a shortage of guys. Did she have to go after those who were taken? Destroy families? I couldn’t believe I had actually liked her. That I’d even considered having her as my baby’s auntie. And now she was dead. I couldn’t even get angry at her without feeling horribly selfish.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t know anything about that. I just saw the news.” She paused. “He couldn’t possibly have done something to her. You know that, right?”
I sighed. “I do.”
I’d barely hung up with Sam when my mother called. “Have you seen the news?” she asked, her voice strained, tentative. I could hear the muffled sound of her television in the background.
“I’m afraid so,” I said, pushing around the piles of papers and books on my desk.
“You don’t think Tyler could be involved—”
“Of course he’s not,” I said a bit too sharply, trying to convince myself along with her.
“But why are the cops questioning him, then?”
“They can make anyone look guilty. Believe me. They interviewed me yesterday, too.”
“They did?” she gasped. “Why? You don’t work at the university. What do you have to do with that student?”
Right. “That’s what I mean,” I said as I typed the password to my computer. “I’m sure they’ll let him go soon, if they haven’t already.”
It was ten to nine. I had to speak to Caitlin, respond to Alistair, and figure out how to deal with the repercussions of last night, before it got any later than it already was.
“I knew nothing about a missing student,” my mother was saying. “You haven’t told me anything. The police have questioned my daughter and she hasn’t told me—”
“Mom, I need to go. I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” I said, and hung up.
Luckily, she didn’t know the half of it.
* * *
It took me an hour to compose an e-mail to Alistair, apologizing for having failed him so miserably. What could I say? I spent the evening at the police station being interrogated in a murder case? Certainly not something you want to share with your boss. And what do you follow it with? But not to worry, they let me go? I’m not even a person of interest. Unlike my ex-partner.
In the end, I settled for a short note apologizing for not being able to attend without going into details. I will explain when I see you, I wrote, then apologized again and promised to make up for it. How? I had no idea.
He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, so I had time to figure something out on both counts.
I was being delusional—I knew as much—but I had to keep going, moving through the motions. At least I’d had the presence of mind to text Caitlin. I’d run into Jonathan, my colleague from European Paintings, this morning at the museum’s entrance, and he’d filled me in on the excitement Caitlin had generated with her presentation. I didn’t tell him I’d written it. It didn’t matter. Caitlin had done a great job delivering it. Far better than I would have had I been able to make it, I was sure of that. “She was passionate and convincing and very charming,” Jonathan said. “The patrons loved her.”
I was so relieved to hear it, not that I’d doubted Caitlin’s abilities. I should have been angry to have missed my chance. Mortified to have let down Alistair. Distraught that I would most likely lose my job over it. Instead, I simply felt numb.
38.
LANA
NOW
My stomach had been queasy since morning and by four, I’d made three runs to the bathroom. I’d been avoiding talking to my colleagues all day. I had no idea who might have seen the news and recognized Tyler as my partner, the guy they’d chatted with at the office Christmas party. I’d gotten a few funny glances, but it might have all been in my head. Outside, the sun was bright, the storm of last night a distant memory. The drone of traffic down Fifth Avenue drifted through the open window, punctuated by the horn of an impatient driver every now and then. The world went on as if nothing had happened.
I tried to focus on work. There were the usual loan requests, including one from the British Museum for Michelangelo’s Sibyl studies, which I had to respond to ASAP since we were borrowing a bunch of Parmigianino drawings from them. I also needed to answer a colleague from the Getty, asking for my insights pertaining to a drawing attributed to Guido Reni. I’d just clicked Reply when my phone rang.
Tyler’s name flashed on my screen. Fucking bastard, I thought, but deep down, I exhaled. The cops must have let him go. That was all I needed to know. If they didn’t think there was a reason to hold him, then I had nothing to fear. But I sure as hell didn’t want to speak with him. I simultaneously worried and hoped that Robertson had told him about my pregnancy. Anger is a funny thing. It can make us ignore our own interests in favor of hurting someone else. My mother loved to quote an old Bulgarian proverb: I don’t care if I’m okay, as long as the neighbor isn’t.
My actions, while not exactly ethical, were in no way a betrayal of him. Whereas he’d had an affair with our supposedly anonymous egg donor. That was more than I could deal with even without her turning up dead in the Hudson.
* * *
It was nearly seven by the time I decided to wrap it up and go home. There was nothing I could do to make up for missing the presentation last night, but at least I’d kept myself busy. I dreaded going back to the apartment. If only I could sleep for days—no, months—until it was time to give birth. Then I could wake up and deal with the world.
I signed out of my computer and tidied my desk, stacking into a neat pile all the books I’d brought from the library in the past couple of weeks and left lying around open, merely a few pages in. On my way out, I glanced at Alistair’s dark office. I had to figure out what I would tell him tomorrow. He hadn’t responded to my e-mail, which I assumed meant he’d rather yell at me in person. To make things worse, I had my ultrasound appointment in the morning. I could possibly call and reschedule, but there was no way I would voluntarily wait an extra day. What if the hematoma had got
ten worse? All this stress couldn’t be good for a normal pregnancy, let alone for a complicated situation like mine. My baby trumped everything. I could find another job, maybe even another partner, but this was my last chance at motherhood.
Most everyone had gone home. With Alistair out of town, there was no reason to show off working late. The front office, with worktables and desks for the fellows and assistants, was deserted, taking on that quiet library feel. Caitlin was the only one left, scribbling something on a yellow sticky note, her computer screen already dark. “Good night, Caitlin,” I said without pausing.
“Ah, Lana!” she said behind me in her perpetually cheerful voice. “Wait, I’m leaving, too.”
I pretended not to hear her, but she caught up with me at the door. Walking the empty halls of the museum used to be my favorite part of the job. I never could get enough of it even though I’d seen some of the pieces hundreds of times. But this evening, I had no eyes for the art on the walls.
“How’s the procedure going?” Caitlin asked in a hushed voice. People at work knew about my infertility treatments. There was no way around it. You can hide one, maybe two IVFs, but not years of endless doctor visits and surgical procedures. I’d only told Caitlin that I’d had an emergency situation last night. She must have thought it had to do with my latest cycle.
“So far so good.” Until the pregnancy was far enough along and the baby out of danger, I wouldn’t tell anybody.
“Fingers crossed,” Caitlin said as if we were talking about a fellowship application. But I was thankful that she didn’t pry.
Outside, tourists lingered on the steps enjoying the magic hour, some standing, chatting in different languages or taking selfies; others sitting around, leaning against backpacks, legs stretched, staring at the façades across Fifth Avenue bathed in golden light or people-watching as New Yorkers went by, jogging in and out of the park, strolling with their dogs, baby carriages, or both. There was something about warm late-spring nights; they acted like opioids on our psyches, regardless of nationality, gender, or age. The dogs seemed happier, too. Hell, even the pigeons seemed to be bobbing their heads more cheerfully than they would on a frigid day in February.
I paused, letting the stress drain out of me. If it weren’t for Caitlin, I might have even considered sitting down myself. Maybe I could still do so on one of the nearby benches. I was just about to tell her I was going to walk across the park and bid her good night when she leaned closer and whispered, “By the way, I saw Tyler on the news this morning.”
I’d expected it all day and yet, when Caitlin looked at me, her face contorted into a fake expression of concern, I found myself unable to respond. What do you say to something like that? Oh, yeah, he looks great in that photo, doesn’t he? I knew she was fishing for information but I had no intention of giving her any. So I just shrugged and started down the stairs.
Caitlin followed after me. “Some of the others were speculating that you guys might have broken up,” she said. “You know, he hasn’t been calling you at the office. His photo is gone from your desk . . .” She shot me a side look and patted my arm. “You’re better off without him.”
As if on cue, I heard Tyler’s voice calling my name. My throat tightened. I turned and saw him rushing down toward us. He must have been waiting at the top of the stairs, hidden by all the people milling around. I looked back at Caitlin and forced a smile.
“Sorry. I need to go,” I said, and walked toward Tyler before he’d caught up with us and the awkwardness level reached cosmic proportions.
Fucking Tyler. He’d been calling and leaving me messages all afternoon.
“What are you doing here?” I said, trying to keep my voice down.
“You won’t pick up the phone and you were pissed last time when I came to the apartment—”
“Tyler, if I wanted to talk to you, I would have called you back,” I said, and started walking toward the bus stop so we wouldn’t have this conversation on the front steps. I’d lost all desire for the park. “You can’t force me to engage with you,” I continued. “You’ve made a fool of yourself—best-case scenario—and it’s all over the news for everyone to see.”
“But that’s exactly why I’m here,” he said, keeping up with my fast pace. “I don’t care what other people say but I want you to know that none of this is true.”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“Lana, please.” He took my hand and stopped. His hair was disheveled. There were bags under his eyes. “You need to believe me. I had nothing to do with Katya’s death. I never had a relationship with her. You know me. I would never—”
“I thought I knew you. You’ve proven me wrong.” I pulled my hand out of his. “This is a very difficult time for me and I need you to leave me alone. Okay?” I turned and walked away before he had a chance to fight it.
One thing was clear, I thought as I boarded the bus: Tyler still didn’t know I was pregnant.
* * *
After a quiet evening watching reruns of Friends, I made the mistake of going online and checking the news before I went to bed. There were no updates on the progress of the investigation. But in the absence of news from the police, the media had uncovered that “Columbia Professor Tyler Jones, who had been questioned in connection with Katya Dimitrova’s mysterious death, had been involved with another student. Rachel Grant, a PhD candidate in philosophy, did not respond to requests for comment, but other students reported having seen them together.”
My hands clenched into fists. How many women had there been? One could be dismissed as a mistake. But two, two screamed a pattern. Had our relationship been a total sham? How had I been so blind to the real Tyler?
I shut the computer and picked up Plato from his favorite napping spot on the armchair.
“Bedtime,” I said, and dropped him on top of the covers next to my pillow.
39.
TYLER
NOW
I was on my second beer when I got the text from Rachel. I hadn’t even bothered to look at the name of the bar. I’d just walked into the first joint I found after Lana had given me the boot on the museum steps. It wasn’t my kind of place—sleek, shiny ambience; young privileged crowd. Guys in suits and ties, straight from the office. Bottle-blond girls with perfect manicures and fancy clothes. Even if they wore jeans and a tank top, it looked like the outfit had been snatched off a mannequin at Saks. That was the Upper East Side for you—sharp-edged and stiffly starched. I’d have preferred a good ol’ Irish pub. But I was desperate. I couldn’t bear going back to the depressing studio I was renting in Washington Heights, my duffle bag still half unpacked on the floor, blocking the way to the bathroom.
Rachel’s text read: Did you see this? followed by a link. I clicked on it and my sorry face came up next to the headline: “Learning with Benefits: Columbia professor questioned in connection with international student’s mysterious death over Mother’s Day weekend had been involved with yet another student.” I read long enough to see that Rachel was mentioned by name. Those motherfuckers. I’d hoped they wouldn’t drag her into this. I’d even given Lana a made-up name, to protect Rachel’s privacy.
I am so sorry, I texted her back, and downed my beer. Decided to switch to bourbon and asked for Maker’s Mark on the rocks. I held the glass in my hand and gave it a jiggle, swirling the ice before taking a sip. I’d forgotten how much I liked bourbon. I’d been drinking wine these past few years and only with dinner. Alcohol supposedly reduced the production of normally formed sperm. Ha. Some men watched their cholesterol, others their blood pressure, and I—my sperm count. No more.
The vagaries of life and love. Less than two months ago, Lana and I had been conversing over dinner about sperm shape and motility. Now I had to stalk her at work for a chance to speak to her.
It was all my fault. I’d invested my energy into taking care of Lana and along the way I’
d neglected my own feelings. Worse, I’d felt like I had no right to grieve because I wasn’t experiencing half of what she was going through. The hormones, the injections, the morning sickness followed by miscarriages. The surgeries. Every time Lana had a surgical procedure, however minimal, she took a risk. She’d done it so many times, she barely noticed. After her last miscarriage, she’d even joked that she couldn’t wait to have the D&C because she’d wake up with the numbing effect of the anesthetic. The same drug that Michael Jackson had supposedly overdosed on.
But every time she was wheeled into the operating theater, I was left behind in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers, terrified. What if she didn’t wake up? What if she was one of the unlucky seven in a million who didn’t?
I couldn’t share any of my anxieties with Lana. I was her support. I was the one to comfort and encourage her when she fretted over every blood test result, every ultrasound, every IVF cycle. There was no space for my fears. Still, I should have told Lana how I felt instead of opening up to Rachel.
My phone lit up with another text.
Can we meet? Rachel wrote. I need to talk to you.
Not a good idea right now, I texted back.
My burger arrived. I took a fry, pushed the plate aside. I hadn’t had much appetite to begin with. After seeing the latest news report, I’d lost it entirely.
“Not hungry?” asked a girl who’d just climbed on the barstool to my left.
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