“You don’t have to do this,” the prosecutor said. “We’ll get this bastard. I promise.”
Prakrti shook her head.
“Hear me out. I’ve been thinking about the case,” the prosecutor pressed on. “Even without a fresh-complaint witness, there’s a lot of leverage we have on this guy. His family is here in the States, which means he wants to come back.”
Prakrti didn’t appear to be listening. She was looking at the prosecutor with bright eyes as though she’d finally found what to say to make everything right. “I never told you, but I’m planning to go to law school after college. I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. But now I know what kind. A public defender! Like you. You’re the only ones who do any good.”
*
The hotel, in the East Twenties, is one Matthew used to stay in years ago, when it had been popular with European publishers and journalists. Now it’s been renovated beyond recognition. Techno thumps in the dungeonlike lobby and pursues him even into the elevators, where it becomes the soundtrack for lurid videos playing on embedded screens. Instead of providing a haven from the city streets, the hotel wants to bring them in, their restlessness and need.
In his room, Matthew showers and puts on a fresh shirt. An hour later, he’s back in the lobby, amid the pounding music, waiting for Jacob and Hazel—and for Tracy—to arrive.
With a feeling of facing up to a dreaded task, he begins scrolling through his text messages, and deleting them, one by one. Some are from his sister, Priscilla, others from friends inviting him to parties months ago. There are payment reminders and lots of spam.
He opens a text that says:
Directly after that, another, from the same number.
For months Matthew has felt nothing but rage toward the girl. In his head, and out loud when alone, he has called her all kinds of names, using the worst, the most offensive, the most vitalizing language. These new messages don’t rekindle his hatred, however. It isn’t that he forgives her, either, or that he thinks she did him a favor. As he deletes the two texts, Matthew has the feeling that he is fingering a wound. Not compulsively, as he used to do, risking reopening or reinfection, but just to check if it’s healing.
These things don’t go away.
At the far end of the lobby, Jacob and Hazel appear. Following them, a few steps behind, is someone Matthew doesn’t recognize. A young woman in a maroon fleece, jeans, and running shoes.
Tracy isn’t coming. Now or ever. To convey this message, she has sent this babysitter in her place.
Jacob and Hazel haven’t seen him yet. They appear cowed by the sinister doormen and thumping music. They squint in the dim light.
Matthew stands up. His right hand, of its own accord, shoots straight into the air. He’s smiling with an intensity he’s forgotten himself capable of. Across the lobby, Jacob and Hazel turn and, recognizing their father, despite everything, come running toward him.
2017