“Jesus, girl, get a grip,” she muttered. Then there was a BANG!, and something flew at Sam’s face. She wheeled around, fists up in her old boxing stance. But it was only the shadow and noise of the elevator coming to life.
The cage rose into view, containing two Boston police officers, one carrying a pry bar. “Ms. Vetiver?” said the other, whose name tag readHayes. “You call for a wellness check?”
Sam said she had and showed her ID. Officer Hayes banged on Amelie’s door. “Ms. Stutz,” he called, “Boston PD. Open up, please.” He did it again with the same result. Meanwhile, his partner took to the stairs, and Sam heard him knocking on neighbors’ doors. He returned, shaking his head.
“Ms. Vetiver,” said Officer Hayes, “you believe Ms. Stutz is in mortal danger?”
Sam prayed Amelie was not just away on vacation, and if she was, that she would forgive Sam for what was about to happen. “Yes,” she said.
“Stand back, please,” said Officer Hayes.
The other cop rammed the bar just above Amelie’s doorknob. The noise was terrific, and Sam covered her ears. The door popped open, releasing a flood of brilliant light into the hallway, along with the smell of incense and something meatier, like dead mouse.
“Give us a few,” said Officer Hayes. “We’ll look around, let you know what we find.”
Sam paced the hallway to the chicken-wired window at the end, which overlooked an air shaft. More shadows stirred above: pigeons, waddling over the skylight. Sam knew she should reach out to Drishti or William; the time you least wanted to ask for support was the time you most should. But she didn’t. She had a very bad feeling.
She thought of her hand on the doorknob. In the motel. How it had smelled of smoke and wet metal even outside the door, in the hallway. The ruined rug.
The elevator banged and descended, and this time when it came up there were two EMTs in it, with a gurney. Sam covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said.
Officer Hayes came out of Amelie’s apartment, removing his cap. “Ms. Vetiver,” he said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you, Ms. Stutz is deceased.”
Oh, Amelie, thought Sam. I’m so sorry. “Was it—how did she—”
“We’ll do a more thorough investigation, but we found several empty bottles of prescription medication. It seems pretty conclusive Ms. Stutz took her own life.”
Sam nodded. She bent and put her head between her legs.
“Can I get you some water?” said Officer Hayes.
“Yes please,” said Sam faintly.
She concentrated on her five senses, a behavioral therapy trick Hank had taught her. Static of police radios, squeak of EMT Crocs and gurney wheels. Taste of blood. Smell of sandalwood and dead mouse. Sam should have known. Should have come sooner. She knew Drishti and her group and Hank and even his group would say there was nothing Sam could have done, but Sam didn’t buy that. She never had. What if she’d persisted, called Amelie again, asked her what was wrong, why she had missed class, could Sam do anything? Did Amelie want company, another heartbeat in the house? Sam knew what it was like to live alone. What if she had just come to sit quietly on the couch so Amelie knew somebody was there? Instead Sam had been at the fucking beach with William. Literally, the fucking beach. They’d probably been banging their brains out while Amelie was pouring that final glass of water or wine. Whatever anyone said, Sam had been through this before. She should have known. She should have come.
Can you hear me? Open the door!
You’ll have to pay for that carpet, you know.
Ghost voices from another room, a place that was never really very far away.
The EMTs emerged wheeling the gurney, which had a shape on it zipped into a gray bag. “Oh my God,” Sam moaned. She reached out as if to touch Amelie but did not. I’m so sorry, Amelie, Sam thought. And, as the cage carried Amelie down: Why? Why did you do it?
Officer Hayes brought Sam a glass of water, which she drank gratefully, her stomach hitching at the iron taste. “Was there any evidence of foul play?” she asked. She sounded ridiculous to herself, like she was on some true crime show.
“None.”
“Did she leave a note?”
“Not that we saw. You’re welcome to take a look around if you don’t disturb anything.”
“No, that’s okay,” Sam said, and stepped over the threshold anyway.
The first thing that struck her was the reason for all that light: two walls of windows overlooking Boston Harbor and the skyline. Tugs, the Tea Party schooner, boats of all kinds swooping back and forth: No wonder Amelie wrote about pirates, Sam thought inanely. Amelie’s small-press book jackets, blown up to poster size, lined the walls: pirate queens wielding swords, standing on prows, kissing half-dressed men in ripped pantaloons. Oh, Amelie, Sam thought again. Why?
She walked around gingerly, scanning surfaces for a note. Refrigerator, coffee table, Amelie’s desk—an enormous teak thing piled with ledgers and a cutlass letter opener: nothing. Nor were there any photos of people. No family, no PirateCon pals, not even a parrot. Had Amelie succumbed to killing loneliness? Was that why she had done it?
Because the loft was an open floor plan, Sam didn’t realize she was in the bedroom until she came upon the bed, a wooden four-poster with a canopy like sails and a long dark stain down the center of the duvet. Sam backed away—she knew what that meant. The dead mouse smell was stronger here too. The officers had collected the prescription bottles, but nothing else was disturbed. Sam tipped her head to read the book titles on the bedside table.Moby-Dick;The Wreck of the Whaleship Essex;The Bell Jar; the poems of Emily Dickinson. Had Amelie had depression?What Billy Styron calledDarkness Visible, Sam heard William say.
