FOR THE REST OF THE MORNING, I DO MY BEST TO RESPOND TOemails and then brace myself for my second client Zoom of the day. This one is with a woman in her early thirties who often makes me wonder why she hired me because she always seems to know better than I do. True to form, within minutes she’s challenging some of my suggestions about how to deal with a difficult coworker. It’s a relief when the hour is up, and I conclude by saying I’ll send her a recap of the session, hoping I can make my suggestions less muddled in writing.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, then adds, “Are you all right, by the way?”
“What do you mean?” It comes out with a curtness I didn’t intend.
“I just thought you might not be feeling well.”
“Uh, no, I’m fine, just a little tired. Thanks for asking.”
“You should drink extra fluids today. You look really dehydrated.”
Great, now she’s coachingme.
As soon as I’ve signed off, my day goes from bad to worse. There’s a text waiting from Drew’s wife, Heather, and my heart sinks as I read it.
Katherine, I got your messages and I know you mean well, but please, let us deal with our horrific grief on our own. Drew does not feel comfortable with my speaking to you. We are planning a memorial service, of course, but we intend to keep it private, just family and very close friends.
Meaning I’m not going to be invited. Surely Jamie’s uncle and aunt are eschewing contact with me because they blame me for his death, like I’m some kind of pariah.
I try to concentrate on work again and do my best with the recap for the difficult client—so she won’t decide to drop me—but my mind keeps fighting its way back to Jamie and Sam and the dismissive text from Heather.
Something plops onto my keyboard and I realize I’m crying again. I grab a tissue from the rattan box on the desk and wipe my eyes, but as soon as I’ve soaked up the tears, more come, and before long I’m fighting to catch my breath. Sam said that I shouldn’t feel guilty, that I wasn’t the cause of Jamie’s distress, but I have no proof of that. How am I going to be able to function over the next days and weeks? How am I going to do my job or go on with my life?
I briefly consider calling Megan or my mom, but I know hearing their voices will only go so far. I need comfort, but I need answers even more.
Dropping the tissue, I tug out the single drawer in my desk. Nestled among the paper clips, pens, and neon Post-it notes are two sets of keys—a spare one to my apartment and my old set to Jamie’s place, which I never got around to returning.
I’m going there, I decide. Even though Drew probably intends to have someone pack up the apartment as soon as possible, I doubt that plan is in place yet. Whatever was tormenting Jamie, perhaps he left a clue in the apartment. And I need to get my hands on it.
8
SHORTLY AFTER TWO, I HAIL A CAB TO JAMIE’S APARTMENT ONWest Twenty-Fourth Street. It’s going to cost plenty, but I don’t have the mental stamina right now for a forty-minute trip by subway, which would involve switching trains at one point. Plus, this way I can get in and out by four o’clock and be less likely to run into any of Jamie’s neighbors coming home from work.
The trip south is straightforward enough, but we hit crosstown traffic after turning west, and by the time we pull up to his building, I’m nearly jumping out of my skin. Beyond my fear of possibly bumping into someone Drew has dispatched, I dread being back in the apartment, especially knowing that Jamie won’t ever be returning there.
After exiting the cab, I loiter a minute on the sidewalk, making sure that no one I recognize is about to enter or leave the building. Fortunately, there’s no doorman to contend with, and if a former neighbor spots me, they might not give my appearance a second thought. Anyone who asks themselves why this is the first time they’re seeing me in ages could conclude I’ve been traveling a lot over the past months or that my schedule just hasn’t aligned with theirs. Even if they somehow knew that Jamie and I had broken up, it’s possible they’ll assume we’ve gotten back together again. But over the next few days, some residents will probably get wind of the tragic news, and if one spots me today,they might mention my presence to the super, who might in turn tell Jamie’s family.
Once I’m sure the coast is clear, I dart into the small lobby, unlock the door, and board the elevator. It stops on the seventh floor with a loud groan, as if empathizing with me. Before exiting, I poke my head out to check that the corridor is deserted, then make my way to 7G and nervously rap on the door. When no one answers, I turn the key in the lock and quickly enter the apartment.
I can’t believe I’m here, standing in a place I thought I’d set foot in for the last time months ago. I survey the foyer—the mint-colored walls, the small wrought-iron table, the jade-green bowl sitting on top of it where we always dropped our keys when we returned home. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the most ferocious sadness. The bowl will never hold Jamie’s keys again.
For the first time I wonder if he might have left a suicide note right here in the apartment, then realize I may be about to find out.
I take two steps into the living room and then freeze, listening carefully. My heart is beating so loudly, I can hear it between my ears, but after a minute I’m certain I have the apartment to myself. It’s almost oppressively warm in here, probably because the AC hasn’t been run lately. I tiptoe farther into the space and finally exhale.
At a glance, it doesn’t seem like anyone has been here yet. The place is tidy, just as Jamie must have left it when he set out for his weeks-long stay in Litchfield County. He is—no, hewas, I remind myself with a horrible pang—a bit of a neatnik, though he never complained about the splayed books, scraps of paper, and coffee cups I left in my wake.
A sob catches in my throat. Part of me wants to flee, to forget this crazy idea, but I can’t. This is my chance to figure out if Sam is right and that I wasn’t the source of Jamie’s recent distress. Because otherwise I’ll never let go of the guilt, no matter how much Megan and Ava and my mother assure me I should.
I drag my gaze around the room, absorbing the details. Though the building is fairly modern, the apartment itself has several touches that prevent it from seeming austere—lead-paned windows, oak floors, and a small arch above the doorway that leads to the bedroom corridor. Jamie bought the apartment about four years ago after breaking up with a long-term girlfriend who’d moved to Hong Kong for a dream job. The colors he chose for the decor, mostly creams and pale greens, give it a relaxed, comfy vibe. I liked the apartment from the start and was always at ease in these rooms, at least during those early months before doubts began to slither into my head.
As I stand here, though, it strikes me that being at ease is not the same as being at home, and that in certain ways I always felt a bit like a houseguest. Since I’d moved into the apartment as a stopgap measure until we found a place of our own, I’d put almost all my belongings in storage and never added any personal touches—not even so much as a favorite tea towel.
Maybe that should have been a red flag for me.
My eyes inch across the room, and I realize it looks mostly the same, but with a few changes I can’t help but notice. Jamie’s replaced the slightly battered coffee table from his previous apartment with a sleek model of burled wood. There’s also a new piece of art—composed of metal and what looks like gold chimes—on a wall that used to be bare.
With a start, I spot one more thing. The silver-framed photos that once sat on a wooden Parsons table against the far wall have been removed and replaced with a couple of houseplants. It’s no surprise that he got rid of the pictures featuring the two of us, but I can’t imagine why he took away the others—shots of him with friends and of course his late parents.
