The coroner finally sighed and stepped aside. The thing of it was, I didn’t quite believe that she’d been hit by a car, that she was here, inside this cold, dark horrible place. Perhaps it was all a giant mistake, a ruse. Tom had come to take Myrtle westward after all and she’d faked her death to get George off their trail. And now the true accident was that they’d told me she was dead, brought me down here.
Even as Detective Charles held on gently to my elbow to lead me inside, pointed to the cold metal table in front of me, and I saw a red-haired woman’s body, all but her head covered by a sheet. Even then, I did not believe it. I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It can’t be her. It’s not her.”
Detective Charles let go of my elbow. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said gently. “But I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”
I nodded and stepped forward, trying to hold my breath. The smell of death hit me so strongly now, I was worried I’d vomit again. And I’d left my bucket outside.
The woman on the table resembled my sister, only a little. Her similarly colored red hair was matted with blood. When I stepped even closer, I saw a part of her left cheek was missing. I shuddered a little, closed my eyes for a moment. Then opened them and leaned in closer still. The dead woman’s nose was slightly crooked and blue; her eyes were sealed shut.
I put my hand on her right cheek, still pristine, intact. But unbearably cold and rigid. I slightly turned her face with my hand, trying to get a good look at her. She resembled Myrtle in the most terrible, distant way. But she couldn’t be Myrtle. I did not believe she was Myrtle.
Then my eye suddenly caught a sparkle underneath her matted, bloodied hair. A glint against the harsh overhead light. I gently brushed aside her hair, and there, trapped underneath the blood, the raw mottle skin, was a diamond hairpin. I pulled it out, held it in my palm, and let it catch the light.
Those hairpins are real pretty, Myrtle.
You’d better believe they’re diamonds. Tom only buys me the best, Cath… Borrow them anytime you’d like.
I ran my fingers across the cool, perfect diamonds now, and then clenched the pin in my palm. I couldn’t help myself, I let out a loud, keening cry. No, no, no! It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be.
But it was. Myrtle was gone. Myrtle was dead.
My cry must’ve startled the men outside because Detective Charles and the coroner burst in. “Miss McCoy, are you all right?” the detective asked. I was still sobbing, and I shook my head. I wasn’t all right. I’d never be all right again.
Detective Charles took my elbow, led me out, up the stairs, outside where the morning was already hot, steam rising out of the subway grates. “Take a deep breath,” he said gently. “Get some fresh air in your lungs.”
I tried, but breaths still escaped my chest ragged, uneven. Hot air filled my throat and all I wanted to do was scream. “How did this happen?” I yelled at the detective. “Who did this?”
“We’re trying to figure that out,” he said. He lit a cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke. “Did your sister know anyone who owns a yellow Rolls-Royce?”
A yellow Rolls-Royce?
Jay. That last night he’d come to me, he’d driven up to the alley behind my apartment. A Rolls-Royce. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Cath? he’d said of his new yellow car parked in the street.
It made no sense, but I knew it, deep down. It was him. It had to be. How many yellow Rolls-Royces could there be driving between the city and West Egg? I felt like I was about to vomit again.
“Witnesses said that was the car, and we’ve been working on tracing it this morning,” Detective Charles continued.
I shook my head, and clenched my fists, feeling the diamonds from the hairpin dig into my palm. If Jay did this, if Jay killed Myrtle, then I would go out to West Egg right now and kill him myself.
“I have to go,” I said brusquely to the detective, slipping the pin inside the pocket of my dress.
He nodded. “I’ll get an officer to drive you back to your apartment.”
“No, I’d rather walk and… take the train,” I lied.
“Are you sure?” I nodded, and he pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “But in the meantime if you think of anything, give me a call.”
I took his card, gave him a clipped smile, slipped it in my pocket along with Myrtle’s pin. And I walked away.
“Miss McCoy,” he called after me, like he realized he’d forgotten to ask me something, but I pretended I didn’t hear. I started walking faster.
Once I was out of his sight, I ran for the train. It was only a matter of time before the detective figured out who the yellow Rolls-Royce belonged to. And Jay and all his money now, he’d probably figure out a way to lie to the policemen or pay himself out of this. And he had to pay for what he’d done. I needed to get to him first.
* * *
IT WAS A little bit of a gamble, going to George’s garage. But I imagined George would be flattened with grief, and he might not notice if I took one of his cars to drive out to West Egg. And even if he were present, I lied to myself on the train, it was possible he might let me borrow a car. That he might, for once, be kind or gentle.
I got lucky, though. The garage was empty when I arrived, the door strangely ajar so that it almost appeared abandoned now. My eyes wandered to the window upstairs, Myrtle’s bedroom window, and hot, fresh tears ran down my cheeks. But then I went inside George’s garage, rummaged through his work drawer. It was filled with keys, and two pistols. That was George in a nutshell: cars and guns. I’d worried for so long about how he’d use either one to hurt Myrtle.
I bit back the tears now, rummaged through the keys until I found a set that started a brown Ford truck. But before I drove away, I ran back, grabbed one of the pistols, and put it in my purse. Just in case, I told myself. But that was a lie. I knew exactly what it was for.
My hands shook, and I put the truck in gear and pressed the gas so hard, the tires squealed as I drove off.
It had been years since I’d driven, not since the farm. But I sped down the road toward West Egg, my hands trembling against the steering wheel, my heart trembling against my rib cage. I could no longer feel the heat or think about where I was going, what I intended to do. I didn’t have a plan.
If anyone were to ask me later—when Detective Charles would ask me later—I would swear it was never my intention to kill Jay. And maybe it was, or maybe it wasn’t.
All I knew was that I ached for some sort of justice for my sister, some sort of way to ease this pain in my belly, this empty space that was already beginning to eat away at my insides.
All I knew was, Myrtle was gone. Myrtle was dead. And Jay Gatsby had to be stopped.
Daisy August 1922
EAST EGG