Jason is in love. And not just a little bit either. It’s the whole “I worship the ground you walk on; I’ll die if I’m without you” kind of love. It’s sweet, but also sad. It can only end badly for him. In fact, if he weren’t so far gone, I would have ended things after the second or third encounter.
I haven’t only because it’s easier to continue seeing him than to have to deal with the fallout of a messy breakup. Besides his tears, I fear the possibility of my expulsion from the university if he tells anyone about our affair—a sexual relationship between a teaching assistant and a student is strictly prohibited.
Finally, there’s Marco, my boyfriend as far as the world is concerned. He’s an artist and a painter, but not the starving type. His relationship with me sees to that, as I’m the youngest daughter of a very successful criminal-defense attorney.
When we met, Marco seemed larger than life to me. He overflowed with confidence at a time when I didn’t think I did anything right, and when he declared that we were meant for each other, I was in no position to disagree.
Back then, he lived with his girlfriend, Belinda. She was about as different from me as I could have imagined—a mousy Latina who worked as a waitress. But she had an apartment, which in hindsight must have been what attracted Marco to her. Marco and I were seeing each other on the sly for about two months when Belinda caught wind of Marco’s cheating, and that’s when he showed up on my doorstep with all his worldly possessions in a beat-up duffel bag.
In the time we’ve been together, I’ve had cause to wonder whether anything Marco ever says to me is true. Starting at the beginning. I don’t even know whether Belinda actually found out about us and threw him out, or Marco decided to trade up in terms of living space and played on my guilt. I do remember that he originally said the move would be for a few weeks only, but he never lifted a finger to find a new place.
It hasn’t been all bad, of course. I’ve learned from Marco about passion for your craft, and at his best he can be thoughtful and sometimes even kind. But at other times he can be cruel and unforgiving. In those moments, the danger I’m courting comes to the forefront.
As I said, there was a time when I was consumed with wondering how this melodrama I’d written for myself would conclude. The only silver lining in all that has happened is that I no longer obsess about that.
I know how it ends.
It concludes with my death. A particularly gruesome murder, I’m afraid.
DAY FOUR
FRIDAY
10.
News of my sister’s disappearance broke at two yesterday. I was determined to avoid the media onslaught, which required that I spend the rest of the day inside and away from my computer, social media, and the television.
Nearly every day the front pages of the tabloids blare with a horrific headline. A toddler killed by a ricochet, a fire that takes the lives of multiple people, an elderly woman raped and beaten for her social-security check. I rarely give those stories a second thought, never considering the lives of the families that have been forever altered or the tragedy of the victims’ lives being cut short.
Today it’s Charlotte’s photograph on the front page. My father and I are the people whose lives have been forever altered. Hers is the life tragically left unfinished.
I flag a taxi and tell the driver that I’m going to One Police Plaza. As we start to move, I turn off the taxi TV to insulate myself from the media. My plan is thwarted because the driver is listening to the all-news radio station.
“Can you turn that off?” I request. “Or put on some music?”
He nods. “Very upsetting. That poor girl.”
The police have scheduled a press conference for noon. The idea is to bring the public into the search for Charlotte.
I arrive at One PP at eleven. It’s immediately apparent that something is happening. There’s a frenzy of activity, with people running through the halls and yelling out short phrases to one another. “I’m on it!” or “Not yet!” or “Let’s hope!”
My stomach tightens. The one thing I can discern from the commotion is that whatever has occurred, it isn’t good.
“What’s going on?” I ask Ruth the receptionist.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she says without making eye contact.
I wait in the wooden chair for Gabriel for the next five minutes, convinced that the delay is because he’s thinking of a way to tell me that they’ve found Charlotte’s body. Why else would he make me wait?
He’s smiling when he approaches, however. I take that as a good sign, but just as quickly convince myself that this could be Gabriel’s demeanor when breaking bad news.
“Come. Let’s talk in my office,” he says.
My legs are wobbly as I follow him down the hall. Inside his office, I take a seat in his guest chair. He shuts the door behind me and then assumes his position behind the desk. I can feel my heart beat so loudly that I fear it might break out of my chest if he doesn’t just tell me already.
He doesn’t say anything, however. It’s as if he’s searching for the words.
I can’t wait any longer. “Is there any news about Charlotte?”
“No,” he says, looking confused. “I would have told you if there had been any developments. You asked for this meeting, Ella. I thought you had something to tell me.”
I’m such an idiot. I did ask to see him in advance of the press conference. His silence wasn’t about working up the courage to share tragic news—he was waiting for me to get to the point.
“Right. The reason I wanted to see you is because when I last saw Charlotte, she told me that she’d just sold her first novel.” I reach down into my briefcase to pull out the loose-leaf binder. “She gave it to me last Tuesday, and I finally read it last night. I don’t know how much of it is truly fiction and how much is based on her own life, but the main character is named Clare, which is Charlotte’s middle name, and she’s a graduate student studying music, which isn’t that much of a stretch from Charlotte’s actual life as a graduate student studying creative writing. And in the book, she’s murdered.”
Gabriel sits up straighter and then reaches across his desk to take the binder out of my hand. When it’s within his grasp, he skims the pages. “Who’s the killer?”