“Yes. I’m really glad you came, Dylan,” Ella says.
I actually came up with the name Dylan Perry on the fly. I was thinking of a rebel. My first choice was to go with Dean James, but I worried that was too obvious. I’m embarrassed to say that the next image to pop into my head was of Luke Perry, who played a character named Dylan on Beverly Hills, 90210. I couldn’t remember the character’s last name, so I went with the hybrid.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” I say. “I can’t imagine what a nightmare this must be.”
I’ve never considered acting to be one of my strengths, but I think I’m doing a passable job. I sound sincere, even to my own ear.
“Thank you,” she says. “It’s been really awful.”
I’m not a sociopath. A sociopath lacks any empathy for others, whereas I understand Ella’s suffering, and feel badly for her. Just as I feel remorse for killing Charlotte. I’d take that back in a second if I could, and I’d also ameliorate Ella’s pain by confessing—if the repercussions were minor, but they’re not. The undeniable fact is that no matter how much Ella grieves, her pain will still be much less than mine if I have to spend the rest of my life in a maximum-security prison. So, in the end, you could say that I am a relativist, and that is why I continue on with my prepared speech to Ella.
“I know this is going to sound odd because we don’t really know each other at all, but if there’s anything I can do, please just ask. Even if it’s just to talk.”
I wait a beat, hoping that she’s going to ask for my number, or at least give me an opening to ask for hers. Instead, she makes a comment about the rubber bracelet. I decide that I need to push a little harder.
“Normally I’d ask for your number, but I don’t want to reach out to you until you’re ready, so why don’t I give you my number instead? That way, you can call me whenever you want. No pressure, though.”
She nods and takes out her phone. “Ready.”
I recite the digits of the burner phone I purchased that morning on my way to Riverside Park for precisely this purpose. The same number I put on the sign-in sheet. She punches them into her phone.
I programmed “Under Pressure” as my ringtone. She laughs when it comes through, which was my intent in choosing the song.
“No pressure, huh?” she says, laughing.
By the way she looks at me—as if she’s remembering our night together and wishing for more—I know that I won’t have to wait long to hear from her.
DAY SIX
SUNDAY
33.
On Sunday mornings, my usual routine is to go for a run. I do a five-mile loop along the Hudson River, starting out at Jane Street and making the turn at the Intrepid Museum, a World War II battleship docked permanently at Forty-Second Street. The path tends to be crowded, filled with joggers and cyclists, but I enjoy the cold wind whipping up from the river—the Hudson Hawk, they call it. Then I walk back home, the sweat trickling down my back and the sun on my face as I watch the other runners grunting by me.
Today, however, when I leave my building, I jog to the east. I hadn’t given it any true forethought. It’s almost as if my mind has tricked my body, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Whichever is in charge, I find myself heading to the East River. Returning to the scene of the crime, as it were. Well, not the crime exactly, but the cover-up.
I run from Chelsea through the East Village and then into Alphabet City, that part of Manhattan where the streets are lettered rather than numbered. On nearly every tree I see Charlotte’s smiling face staring back at me from that pink leaflet.
It takes me no more than twenty minutes to bisect Manhattan and arrive at First Avenue. From there I head north, watching the numbered streets tick by—First Street to Second to Third. My destination is Fourteenth, where I’ll enter East River Park, just as I did six days ago.
Only this time, I’m without Charlotte’s dead body in a suitcase.
I haven’t formulated any sort of plan for what I’ll do when I arrive. Nor have I really thought about whether my presence is well advised. For all I know, the cops are staking out the area. But if I see a horde of police, that’ll be helpful information I didn’t have before, and I’ll just turn around and go home.
Nothing looks familiar in the park in daylight. In fact, it’s a joyous place on this Sunday morning, a bustle of activity. Couples hand-in-hand, people walking dogs, the ball fields filled with Little Leaguers, and the playground bursting with the bright colors of the outfits of the children running around. Best of all, no cops.
I walk down the embankment to the East River, stopping at the fence separating the park from the water. I recall how formidable it seemed, but without a suitcase filled with Charlotte’s dead body, it only takes a half jump to scale it. On the other side, the ground is soft and muddy even though it hasn’t rained over the last few days. There’s no evidence of footprints and certainly nothing to indicate wheels or a heavy item being dragged.
I look back into the park. No one has taken any notice of me making my way down to the river. Perhaps this is something people do—try to get close to the water.
The river is calm, barely a ripple on the surface. It’s what lies below that concerns me, of course.
I can feel Charlotte with me. It’s not that I actually see her dead body rise from the river, nor do I feel a ghostly presence. Rather, she has invaded my consciousness somehow.
Although I thought I’d succeeded in intellectualizing away my breaking of the “Thou shalt not kill” commandment, her presence suggests otherwise. Needless to say, she takes the opportunity to make clear that she’s not supportive of my choices.
“You’re not going to get away with it, Christopher,” she says. “You think you’re smarter than anyone, but you’re not. Ella’s twice as smart as you. She’ll figure it out.”
I respond audibly, albeit in a whisper. “She hasn’t so far.”
“She will. And when she does, she’ll make you pay.”
At ten, my phone pings. A text. The only reason I even move to read it is because it’s my burner.
Ella.
If she had let the weekend pass without reaching out, I would have begun second-guessing everything I had thought about her interest. Worse than that, I would have become suspicious that she knew I’d killed her sister. But any thought of that is erased when I read her message.
The words almost completely fill my screen. Full sentences, complete with punctuation. Not the phonetics and emoji-heavy gibberish most women text.
Hey there. Wondering how you’re doing.
I’m good. And you?
I’ve had a crappy day, to tell you the truth.
Sorry. Anything I can do?
I stare at the screen, awaiting her reply. Ten seconds pass. I no longer even see the ellipses that indicate she’s typing her next message.
But then my phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, as if I don’t know it’s Ella calling.