“Video from the CCTV cameras, maybe?”
“The reports didn’t say anything about it. Only video of her entering the bridge. Plus, wouldn’t the cops have seen it earlier? What, they interrogated a bunch of us just for the fun of it?”
Angie chuckled.
“On top of it,” I continued, “she had a history of depression? Seriously? There was nothing to even remotely suggest a mental illness in her application. She actually told me—imagine!—that she would never go to a shrink. Turns out she’d been in therapy for a year.” I slowed to catch my breath. “Either she’s a liar or the cops have it all wrong.”
“Or both.”
“Or both,” I repeated.
* * *
The police station was bustling with activity as usual. “At least the media crews left,” the officer at the entrance told me. Upstairs, uniformed and plainclothes cops walked in and out. Some of the detectives were looking through files or staring at their computer screens; others were talking on the phone—like Sanchez in the corner—or with each other. Robertson seemed rushed but smiled curtly and showed me to his desk. I was spared the “interview” room this time. Of course, the case was closed. Still, it felt weird to be back, my heart rate picking up the moment I’d entered the building.
“Let me guess,” he said as we sat down. “You’re here to ask me if we are sure she committed suicide.” I gave him a blank stare, uncertain how to feel about him having read me so easily.
“I know you’re busy and I’m not exactly family,” I said, “but can you please help me understand? Because it just makes no sense.”
“Suicide is hard to accept,” he said. “People tell me all the time—even when there’s a suicide note—that their loved one couldn’t have done something like that. It’s hard to believe and hard to deal with because there is no one to blame. No one to point a finger at and ask for justice.”
“I get that,” I said. “But you didn’t answer my question. Are you sure it was suicide?”
“As sure as we can be in a case like this.” He furrowed his forehead. “When a person dies as a result of a fall from a height—whether it’s a bridge or a cliff—it’s often very difficult to determine whether the fall resulted from an accident or whether it was a suicide or homicide, especially if there were no witnesses and no note.”
“So you don’t have footage on the security cameras of her actually jumping? The media reported that she was seen—”
“The CCTV cameras don’t cover every inch of the bridge. She must have been in one of the blind spots.”
I folded my hands, thought about it. “How do we know then that nobody pushed her?”
“We pursued all leads of possible foul play . . .” The corner of his lip curled. “Including your involvement. But found nothing.”
“And you’re sure about Nick? He works and lives right there—”
“Nick went home that night with another woman.”
“But what if . . . I mean, whoever that woman is, they might have been in it together.” Robertson was looking at me with his head cocked. “For the money,” I added, feeling self-conscious. “They could split it . . .”
“I should hire you to work for me.” He chuckled. “But, yes, their story checks out.”
I nodded reluctantly. “And how about that guy from the club?”
Robertson smiled, seemingly more amused than impatient with my line of inquiry. “The building’s security cameras show that he didn’t leave his apartment until the next morning at eleven, when he joined friends for brunch.”
I hesitated, the very thought unimaginable. “And Tyler?”
“He was tough to eliminate,” Robertson said, and paused as if meaning to torture me. “No security camera in his building, no woman in his bed to prove that he wasn’t on the bridge at the same time as Katya. Luckily for him, he has a peeping Tom for a neighbor and after Katya left he—”
“Wait, after Katya left where?”
“Tyler’s apartment.”
“She was at his apartment that night?” I clasped the sides of the chair as I leaned forward.
Robertson nodded and went on. “The guy’s in his seventies, an early riser. He has his eye glued to the peephole at the slightest sound. According to him, Katya left at four thirty a.m. The next time Tyler’s door creaked open again was at eight fifteen a.m., nearly four hours after she’d left. It all checks out with the story Tyler told us.” Robertson paused, looked at me. “So there you have it.”
I sighed, my stomach in knots. I didn’t know how to feel. I was relieved Tyler had been cleared of suspicion but the whole business with Katya wasn’t sitting well with me. She’d gone to his apartment after being with Jacuzzi Guy? Then she’d walked onto the bridge and jumped?
Robertson glanced at his phone, finally growing impatient with me. I was surprised he’d told me as much as he had. Maybe he felt guilty for having been so hard on me the other day. Or maybe he just happened to be in a good mood.
“How about Damian? The guy who told me about the green card marriage?”
Robertson shrugged. “We came across the burner phone in her records. She had no communication with him that day. No texts, no calls, nothing unusual or outside of their routine. We’ve followed her every step that night and have exhausted all the options.”
I sat there, thinking. “And nobody else was on the bridge at the time?” I asked. “No stranger, no crazy person who could have pushed her—”
“It’s a popular bridge. On weekends, joggers and cyclists start arriving at dawn. She wasn’t the first person to enter the ramp that morning and a few came on not long after her. Which is why we had to make sure that none of you who had a motive to get rid of her were one of those people.”
“You can’t tell?”
“A helmet on, bent over the wheel . . .” He mimicked leaning over a bike. “No, you can’t make out the person.”
I made a skeptical face and he handed me a thin folder. Inside, I found three fuzzy black-and-white images—two bicyclists and a runner. Robertson was right. I looked at the first photo, stamped 5:03, five minutes before Katya had entered. The way it was shot from above and with the person leaning over the wheel, all I could see was the helmet. The shadows cast by it rendered featureless the bottom part of the face that was visible. You couldn’t even make out the nose. Judging by the arms and thighs, it was most likely a man in the typical cyclist garb: tight shorts and a short-sleeve top with a zipper in the middle, gloves, and a regular road-type helmet with vents. He was riding a road bike, curved handlebars and thin tires. Same with the next photo, stamped 5:23, fifteen minutes after Katya. Again, my guess was it was a male. Another road bike and helmet, this one patterned with two lighter stripes on both sides. The guy was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, no discernible gloves.
The third photo, taken at 5:43, was of a male runner, ripped and with a decent-size bald spot. Maybe one could make out the runner, but not the cyclists. If Tyler was one of them, even I wouldn’t recognize him. I certainly wouldn’t make out Damian or Nick. I gave the folder back to Robertson.
“Could it have been an accident? Could she have fallen without meaning to?” One of the articles I’d read on my phone while waiting for him to see me stated, The only barrier between people wishing to commit suicide and the Hudson River, 25 stories below, is a chest-high metal handrail.
Robertson made a sweeping motion with his eyes. “You have to ask yourself: what was she doing there at that time? She wasn’t jogging, biking . . . Unless she was meeting someone, the idea that she’d go onto the bridge just for a stroll at that hour and somehow happened to slip or a stranger gave her a shove is a bit far-fetched. She was on that bridge for a reason.” He glanced at his phone again before continuing. “There are many indicators we look at in such cases: previous suicide attempts, a history of depression or other mental disorders, lea
ving possessions on the bridge. None of these factors can necessarily be proof of suicide but taken together, they might lead us to conclude that suicide was the most likely explanation in the circumstances.”
“Did Katya leave anything on the bridge?”
He shook his head.
“But she had a history of depression?” I still refused to believe the reports about it.
“She had no diagnosis of clinical depression or any other mental health illness, for that matter.” I stared at him, confused. “But,” he continued, “the university’s psychological services center confirmed that she’d been seeing a counselor for much of the past year. The records show she was suffering from mood swings, insomnia, and bouts of depression. Nothing serious enough to raise red flags or require medication. Still, it’s clear she was having a hard time.”
She was hiding it well, I thought. The Katya I’d known had been laughing and dancing and joking, seemingly not a care in her life, just a few hours before.
“But why?” I said, lifting my arms in exasperation. “Why that night?”
He shrugged. “You do my job long enough and you’ll witness plenty of senseless behavior. People are capable of stranger things.”
I nodded but part of me still couldn’t believe it. Something wasn’t right. That much I knew.
* * *
On my way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Katya had been in Tyler’s apartment that night. After she’d gone dancing with me just a few hours earlier and even sent me a text, calling me “sis.”
What fucked-up game had she been playing?
51.
KATYA
THEN
I woke up screaming, drenched in sweat. My heart pounding, I waited for the nightmare to leave my body. It always took its time, the bastard, tiptoeing out with a smile and a promise to be back. My victim this time was a baby. It was giggling—a loud, ringing sound—as I sliced its throat, inch by bloody inch. I could still hear it, echoing off the walls of my brain. I clasped my hands against my ears even though I knew it wouldn’t help. Anger was my only weapon. It could silence the demons, burn through the fog of my fear. I set my thoughts on Tyler and his betrayal. When my breathing had finally calmed, I pushed back the covers and got up.
It was 3:13. I’d slept for two hours at most. I donned an old T-shirt and a pair of jeans and walked out. The corridors were dead. We were nearing finals and nobody was partying. I walked back and forth, my bare feet feeling cool and light on the linoleum floor. The baby was Alex. Of course it was. I killed him over and over again in my dreams. At five thirty, I went back to bed. I was at once desperate and terrified to fall asleep.
Outside, a garbage truck screeched to a stop. The grinding, clanking sound of bottles crashing into the pit. The engine revving before moving on and the cycle of noises repeating farther down the street. People in the country wake up to the songs of birds; in Manhattan, we wake to the sounds of garbage trucks.
It was noon when I finally got up. I’d slept through a test but I couldn’t give a damn. I went out to get coffee and something to eat at a bagel place on Broadway. I’d just put my credit card back in my wallet when the asshole behind me went, “Are you going to smile?” I spun back and said, “Excuse me?” He repeated, “Smile,” as if it was the most innocuous thing. I went bananas. “Why? You don’t like frowning women?” I said loud enough for everyone in the line to hear. “I’m spoiling your sick fantasy, is that it? Fucking misogynist pig.”
The lady behind the counter laughed loud and deep; a middle-aged woman waiting for her sandwich clapped. The moron paid for his coffee and skulked away.
“I don’t get it,” I told Josh during our session in the afternoon. “Why do men insist that we smile for them? Wives, girlfriends, coworkers, politicians, and even strangers walking down the street. We’re all expected to be pretty and sweet, smiling dolls. Because we’re made out of their rib and here for no other reason than to serve and please them?”
Josh knew enough not to laugh. Or worse—to try to defend his sex. He just sat there with a grave expression. Nodding. Watching me. Waiting. God knows for what. Most likely for the fifty minutes to be over so he could be rid of me.
“As if I needed another reason to be pissed at men,” I said, shaking my head.
I’d barely left my room this past week except for going to get something to eat on the rare occasions when I felt hungry. I’d told Damian I was sick, which in a way I was. He was starting to get suspicious but I didn’t care. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up waiting for me in front of the dorm.
“I thought about doing another donor cycle,” I told Josh. “With a nice couple this time. But how do you ever know, right? How can you ever trust again?” I gathered up my legs, wrapped my arms around my knees and started rocking slightly on the couch. “Everyone I’ve ever trusted has abandoned or betrayed me. Starting with my father.” The more I thought about it, as I rocked there on Josh’s couch, the more I felt sorry for myself and the more unbearable the heavy rock in my chest became.
I looked at Josh. He was the only one who was still sticking by me. I felt a sudden craving for him. For his hands on my breasts, his lips on mine. I needed that physical connection, the reassurance—even if for a fleeting moment—that he wanted me. That I was worthy of love after all. Only he could give me that. Because only he truly knew me. In all my shapes and forms and ugly permutations.
I got up and took a step toward him.
He shot out of his chair. “Katya, we’ve talked about this. Remember?” But I kept going. I smiled and told him I needed him.
He moved to the side, stood between the window and his desk. “I can’t have sex with clients. You know that.”
“Oh, c’mon. Therapy with benefits. It doesn’t get better than that.” I sat on the desk in front of him, let my skirt hike up, exposing my bare thigh.
He looked away as if it burned his eyes.
“These are exceptional circumstances, no?” I pushed on.
“Katya, don’t make me call security.”
I curled a strand of hair around my finger. “What if I stop being your patient?” I asked, even though I knew I could never do that. He was the only person I could talk to. The only one who knew the real me. The ugly me.
“It makes no difference,” he said.
I crossed my legs, exposing even more of my thigh. “Why?”
“Because it’s not ethical,” he said raising his voice. “Because I’ll get my ass fired. That a good enough reason for you?”
Was he fucking kidding me? I offered to stop seeing him—the one thing I had left—and still he was turning me down? I bit the inside of my cheek until I felt the metallic taste of blood. I hated him so much at that moment, I felt like I’d burst.
“Fine,” I said, squinting at him, “Then I’ll start bragging that I’ve been hooking up with my therapist. How long do you think it’ll take before word gets to your boss?”
He stared at me, his jaw quivering.
“Your word against mine,” I said.
“Why would you do that?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re going to lose your job for having sex with me, might as well enjoy it, no? Just saying.”
He was looking at me like I was the devil. Good. It was time he figured out who he was dealing with. I got off his desk. “Your choice,” I said, and walked out, slamming the door behind me.
* * *
By the time I made it back to my room, the anger had given way to hatred. God, I hated myself. It was pointless. Trying to start anew had proven to be a joke. Who had I been kidding? I was a fucking bitch; there was no way around it. Poor Josh. I’d taken it all out on him for turning me down. When all he was doing was looking out for me. I should have known that. He’d only done what a nice guy would do—he hadn’t taken advantage of me. How could I have been so mean to
him of all people? I owed him an apology for my stupid threats.
And anyway, what was I thinking? I needed him to want me, to crave me, not to be blackmailed into having sex with me.
So I went back to his office. I was prepared to wait for him to finish for the day but the receptionist smiled and told me that I was lucky because his next slot had just canceled. And she buzzed him, announcing me.
* * *
“I’m so sorry,” I said at the door, unsure if he’d let me in. He smiled, the skin crinkling around his puppy eyes, and closed the door behind me and stood there, just inches away, as I launched into my apology. “I didn’t mean to be such a bitch,” I said, breathless, eager to get it out before I lost my courage. “It’s just that I felt . . . I felt so . . . wretched, so unwanted.” I hid my face in my hands. “So alone,” I said.
“Katya, you’re not alone.” In my mind, he reached over and peeled my hands off my face and stared into my eyes. In reality, he was still standing there, arms wrapped around his chest. Defensive gesture, I thought. We’d studied that in Psych 101. Was he scared of me? Or of himself?
“I’m feeling woozy,” I said in a weak voice, realizing I still had a chance. “It’s all black . . .” I let my voice trail off and collapsed onto him.
He grabbed my shoulders. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” I stayed limp in his arms for a couple of seconds before opening my eyes and blinking as if disoriented. His face was close to mine as he peered into me, this time for real. There was a fresh scent on him, something minty and sweet. I inhaled deeply, let him think I was short of breath, and pressed myself against him while trying to regain my footing. “Are you okay?” he repeated. “Let me take you to the couch.” I held on to his upper arms. He was buffer than I’d realized. I ran my hand down his back, felt him shiver. So he wanted me, too. Just too much of a coward to break the stupid rules.
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