Josh was nodding but it was the I-hear-you nod. Not the I-agree nod. Fuck him. I didn’t care if he liked it or not. These were the facts.
“Anyway, given that Tyler has abdicated his responsibilities,” I went on, “Lana might need some help raising the baby. Not to mention company. That’s all I’m saying.”
54.
LANA
NOW
“Here it is,” Penka said, and turned Katya’s laptop toward me. We were sitting at the kitchen table. She’d had the tea ready when I arrived and a plate with shortbread cookies. Her two big suitcases stood packed by the bedroom door.
I looked at the screen. Katya stared back at me from what looked like the George Washington Bridge. She was smiling big for the camera, leaning back against the railing, which came up barely to her chest. The river stretched behind her, glistening silvery-gray in the sun like a snake’s skin. Katya was wearing shorts and a sports bra. Her face was flushed, her arms and legs sweaty. From the look of it, she’d gone out for a run. I checked the date; it was taken a year ago.
“Clearly, she’d been on the bridge before,” I said. “She’d known what to expect that night when she headed there.” I no longer struggled finding the Bulgarian words. It all just flowed maybe because I was no longer self-conscious about it. I was sure I messed up the grammar and the word order but unlike my mother, Penka never corrected me.
“Who do you think took the photo?” Penka asked.
I shrugged. “She could have asked any passerby.” There were no other people in the series of images she’d taken that day of the bridge and the Manhattan skyline. I felt disappointed. My fantasy—as I’d rushed to Penka’s apartment—had been that she’d found an important clue, something that would solve the puzzle of Katya’s death. Seeing her standing on the bridge was poignant but didn’t tell us anything.
We drank our tea and ate the cookies in silence. From outside came the banging of hammers and the high-pitched hiss of construction equipment.
“I want to make sure that we stay in touch,” Penka said. “Katya and I spoke on Skype. Maybe we can do the same?” She looked at me expectantly, her eyes puffy from days of crying.
“That would be great.” I smiled and ran my hand over my belly. “I want you to see the little one grow.” Penka was the only person biologically linked to my baby with whom I had no misgivings about a future relationship.
Penka’s computer back home was very old and she was planning on replacing it with Katya’s laptop. But it didn’t have Skype on it.
“Katya had the app on her phone,” Penka said, “but I’m too old for that. It’s easier on the big screen.”
While she went to smoke out the bathroom window, I downloaded Skype for her. As I waited for her to return and log in, I decided to check out Katya’s account. I typed BGgirl as her ID and same password as her computer. Sure enough, I got in. The thrill of success mixed with the buzz of stealing a peek behind the curtain of someone’s life.
The last call in Katya’s history was with her shrink. I stared at the date and time.
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed out loud. Katya had been on Skype with Josh Wozniak at 5:17, nine minutes after the security camera had her entering the bridge. The conversation had lasted only three minutes. But the previous call just half an hour earlier, also with Wozniak, had gone on for ten minutes. Robertson hadn’t said anything about her talking to her shrink before jumping. I felt a shiver run through me. That’s because Robertson didn’t know, did he?
Katya’s phone records would only show her calls and texts. Skype calls wouldn’t register except as data usage, which could be anything, even background updates. Her phone, along with the Skype app and her history, was at the bottom of the river. When the cops had looked through her laptop there had been no Skype.
Why had Josh Wozniak kept his conversation with Katya from the cops? He was the last person to have spoken to her. He owed it to Penka to explain what her daughter had said and felt in her last moments.
To hell with his stupid therapist code of ethics. I had to get him to talk to me.
55.
KATYA
THEN
The evening started out great. The weather was warm, the sky pale blue with wispy clouds that stretched across it like stripes on a sailor’s shirt. The setting sun was shining under the lowest one, bathing the buildings with golden light. The Lower East Side was alive with music and laughter, spilling from sidewalk cafés and bars. A perfect Mother’s Day weekend. Lana and I went to dinner before going to Mehanata. Lana was having a blast, I could tell. It was clear she, too, felt we shared a special connection. I could see it in the way she was talking and laughing, the way she was listening to me like she couldn’t get enough. I’d never had a good relationship with a woman, not with my mother and certainly not with the girls in school. I’d never really had a role model. A woman I admired. Even the female professors looked at me with suspicion, as if they didn’t trust me, as if I were a threat. But Lana, Lana was different.
I snapped a selfie of the two of us on the swing at Mehanata, smiling and hugging like sisters. These guys we met there earlier actually asked if we were sisters. I told them, “Yes, of course.” It wasn’t really a lie. I was beginning to feel a sisterly love toward her. The older sister I could look up to.
Believe it or not, for a moment there, I even thought I would make a great aunt. Auntie Katya. I could babysit when Lana was busy, pick up the kid from school while she was at work. We would go together for walks in the park with the stroller. At the playground, we would chat while the baby played in the sandbox. I would love that child to death. And spoil it. Boy, would I spoil it. Our baby would be the happiest baby on earth.
All that wouldn’t erase the big fat fact that I’d gotten Alex killed—I knew as much—but maybe the good would equalize the bad, hide it like a slipcover draped over an old ugly sofa. Maybe then I could be happy.
Lana left early and it all went downhill from there. I know she’s pregnant and all, but she could have stayed a little longer. I mean it was only eleven. It wasn’t like she’d turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight just because she had a fetus inside her. Still, I was grateful she’d come at all and hoped she wasn’t mad at me for trying to get her to stay longer. Just in case, I texted her our selfie on the swing. It came out really good.
I’d been coming to Mehanata on my own for the past two years but tonight, after Lana left, I felt weirdly, unbearably alone. Discarded, like an old stuffed animal the kids have long since outgrown.
The hollow feeling inside me swelled and I clung harder to the handsome guy I’d been dancing with. He was cool. None of that smooth-talk bullshit I couldn’t stand. Got straight to the point: “My place?”
And quite the place he had—an entire brownstone in Tribeca. Everything was automated, from the curtains to the music and the lights. The control panel by the entrance was the size of an iPad and the menu of options looked as complicated as a spreadsheet. The best part was the rooftop terrace with a view of the Freedom Tower. And, surprise, an actual Jacuzzi bubbling away outside, under the night sky and the lights of Manhattan. I’d seen some glamorous apartments in the four years I’d been studying in New York, but this was too much.
He popped open a bottle of Dom Pérignon and we got into the hot tub. I was a bit nervous at first, but the damn thing was pretty shallow, the water barely up to my waist. It was perfect, romantic even—and I’m not one to fall for romance.
There was nothing unusual until we went back to his bedroom and it became apparent this guy liked it rough. “You dirty little bitch,” he said as he smacked my ass with his hand. One cheek, then the other. I stiffened. I wasn’t above a few ass-slaps here and there, but I sure as hell didn’t like him calling me a bitch. I told him to stop. “Shh,” he said, and pushed my face into the pillows, pinning me down with his thighs and hands. “I know you like it.”
It wasn’t the pain as much as the feeling of helplessness that made me scream and struggle to get out of his hold. Until I realized he actually liked me fighting him, so I stopped. Shut my eyes and gritted my teeth to wait it out. If only I could get to the Mace in my clutch. I could see it clearly in my mind—a simple black envelope clutch—lying on the floor next to the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. Out of reach. Useless.
I clenched my jaw harder. The hum of the central AC. His breath warm and clammy on my neck. The rich fruity scent of his cologne turning rancid with sweat. And then, finally, his ugly grunts. But not before one last whisper in my ear, “You dirty little bitch. You know you deserve it.”
Did I? I wondered as I scrambled to put my jeans back on. For having sex with a man I didn’t know, trusting that he wouldn’t hurt me? For telling the Ombuds officer that Tyler had been stalking me? For crossing the line with Josh? Or was this the punishment for all my sins, going back to the original one? Back to Alex?
I fought those thoughts away, desperately clinging to the idea that the baby growing in Lana’s womb would finally erase Alex’s death from my slate.
When I was dressed and ready to flee, I came around the bed and forced myself to look at him. He lay on his back, limbs spread, eyes closed, his breath still heavy, triumphant. I glanced at the gaping bedroom door just a couple of feet behind me and opened my clutch. “Hey, asshole!” I shouted. He sat up, startled. His eyes went big at the sight of the Mace in my hand before his face vanished in a cloud of spray and I bolted, slamming the door behind me.
“Fuck!” His screams followed me down the stairs. “Motherfucker!”
I stormed out of the building and ran. I ran like mad through the dark empty streets until I was out of breath and barely coherent.
But the guy’s words kept playing in my head: “You deserve it, bitch. You know you do.”
* * *
The New York subway turns into a freak show after midnight. Young people on their way to or from parties and clubs, folks working the graveyard shift, the homeless and all sorts of crazy people talking to themselves or reciting the Bible. I took the number 1 train uptown and sat in a nearly empty car. My flesh burned against the plastic orange seat. My mind was bruised, swollen with anger, throbbing with pain and humiliation.
I stared at the ads overhead—some zit doctor and a bunch of other medical services—as we went, stop by stop, through the Village, Midtown, and the Upper West Side.
At 79th Street, I was left alone with a young red-haired guy in dirty jeans and a T-shirt, sitting across from me, his legs spread like he owned the train. Rap sounded from his earbuds, loud enough to echo in the empty car. He looked at me, his eyes squinting appraisingly, and I felt my chest constrict. My breaths turned shallow and quick. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. The rap music blasted, the lyrics unrecognizable but the beat clear enough.
I wanted to run but there was no place to go. I considered moving into another car, but the thought of sliding the door open and the noise of the train barreling through the dark dingy tunnel had me paralyzed in my seat, sweating in my jeans.
A heavyset older woman got on at the next stop and sat at the other end on my side of the train. I couldn’t see her, unless I turned and stared, but I felt her presence. Warm and soothing. Finally, I was able to take a good breath in, then another.
I felt alone and empty. Empty like this train. Every now and then someone came along for the ride but nobody rode with me. I had no man by my side, no friends, no family. But that’s how you’ve always wanted it, isn’t it? I heard Josh’s voice in my head. That’s beside the point, I thought as a way of an answer. The point was there was nobody I could call in the middle of the night, nobody to take me in and hug me and reassure me that everything would be all right.
Damian was never around on weekends. Not that I could run to him and tell him what had happened. He’d either go smash the face of that guy or throw me out for having been with someone else. Most likely both. And, honestly, the last thing I wanted at that moment was to see Damian.
Lana? I’d only just met her, even if I’d known her from afar for months. I couldn’t go knocking on her door at this hour. I wasn’t supposed to even know where she lived. And anyway, I didn’t want her to see me like this. To know how fucked-up I truly was.
That left Nick. Friends-with-benefits Nick, soon-to-be-husband Nick. He had to still be at Coogan’s. The bar didn’t close until four a.m.
* * *
There were only about a half-dozen patrons left when I got there. The hard-core alcoholics and the occasional having-a-bad-night drinkers. I didn’t see Nick at first and had to make a second sweep of the place before I spotted him at the end of the bar, making out with a girl, his face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair. It felt like a slap in the face. The one time I needed him. I stumbled to a stool and sat down, my heart pumping fast, making a gushing sound in my ears. The other bartender tonight, Alice, took one look at me from under her bangs and said, “You okay?”
She was a few years older than me, with thick hair and freckles all over her nose. I liked her all right but I’d never bothered talking to her much. I wasn’t going to pop open the whole jar of worms now. Tell her that my insides felt like the sweaters my mother washed in the winter and hung to dry on the balcony’s clothesline only to find them frozen solid in the morning. Not that she would care to listen. Bartenders get that shit all the time. People dump their stories on them, talking for hours on end, before finally getting up and leaving a meager ten-buck tip.
I told Alice I was fine and asked for a glass of water that I drank down in a few big gulps. When I felt a bit better, I asked for a tequila. I took a sip, savoring its sharpness. Maybe the fire it left in its wake would help melt the chunk of ice stuck in my throat. But halfway into the glass, the damn thing was still there weighing me down. Maybe it wasn’t ice after all but a pile of rocks. The cobblestones that had paved the trail of disappointment and rejection going back to my father’s death. It was the same pain I’d experienced back then—that suffocating feeling that strangles you from the inside.
Nick finally disengaged from the girl’s lips and came over to say hi. He asked if I was staying at his place. “’Cause I’m, you know, thinking of taking Kim home,” he said with an eye tilt toward the blond girl. I forced a grin, told him that I’d come just for a drink, and wished him a good time. Then I downed my glass and was about to get the hell out of there when my phone buzzed with a text from Lana: I woke up bleeding. I’m afraid I’ve miscarried.
Fucking hell! A few people at the bar looked at me and I realized I’d cried it out loud. I blew the air out of my cheeks through puckered lips. “Fucking hell,” I said again, and walked out.
I’d lost it all. This time for real.
56.
LANA
NOW
I waited for him, hiding by the entrance of the building next door. I’d called the counseling center to make sure he was still there. It was shortly past five thirty p.m. According to their website, the center didn’t close until six. The day had turned gray and humid and I was beginning to sweat. But my hands were cold and clammy with anxiety. The thirty-minute wait felt like hours. The university had a relaxed vibe during the summer sessions. The stream of students flowing in all directions during the fall and spring semesters had dribbled to a few here and there, strolling across campus or hanging out in front of the buildings after classes. The pace with which they walked seemed slower, too, their steps less purposeful, their faces more relaxed.
When he finally walked out, I didn’t accost him. I’d learned my lesson. Instead, I followed him. I was becoming good at it, feeling much more relaxed about it compared to my first time with Katya. Or maybe it was the anger that gave me confidence and kept me coolheaded.
Wozniak took the subway uptown. It was rush hour and the train was packed. No danger
of him seeing me at the opposite end of the car. I had a sense of déjà vu when he exited at 168th Street, just as Katya had. Broadway was busy at that hour and so were the sidewalks. I had to navigate around mothers with strollers, a kid or two walking in tow; a rowdy group of teenage boys, jostling around; guys hanging out in front of small bodegas. When Wozniak passed Coogan’s without entering, I sighed with relief. Who knew how long I would have had to wait if he’d gone in for a drink. He turned on 174th Street and entered a white-brick building on the right halfway down the block. Across from it was a school with a large glass stairwell. A group of students lingered outside. I slowed down, pretending to be checking my phone. To orient myself, I opened the map app and stared at the screen. The cross street ahead of me was Fort Washington Avenue. I hadn’t realized how close I was to the Henry Hudson Parkway and I-95. Only six blocks to the George Washington Bridge’s entrance. Five minutes max on a bike. I halted.
Could he have been one of the cyclists on the CCTV photos?
I charged forward, propelled by a rush of adrenaline and anger. At his building’s entrance, I scanned the apartment panel. Wozniak 3B. I rang a few bells at random, saying, “Delivery,” until someone finally buzzed me in.
I should have called Robertson but I was too worked up to think straight. My plan began and ended with confronting Wozniak.
The entrance hall was dark and dingy. There was a narrow staircase on the left. Luckily, I only had to go up two flights. Still, I started out too fast and arrived winded. There were four apartments on the landing and I took my time catching my breath before I pressed the bell. Nothing. I pressed again and again, holding my finger on it.
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