I think Colton Scott may have played a part in the death of my sister years ago. I was wondering if there’s any way you could get me in touch with your sister so I could ask her a few questions? I can be reached at 845-555-5908. It’s very important. Thank you!
*
With nothing to do but wait, Naomi decides to go for a walk. When she left the apartment, it was a cool but sunny Wednesday morning; now, it’s pouring rain.
Every step she takes squishes against the cement, soaking her socks. But she doesn’t care.
Naomi is surprised when she looks up to see the famous arches and spidery wires of the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s barely visible, though, caught in between a mist of gray clouds encircling the structure. It makes the landmark look gothic, like the bridge is a gateway to a giant medieval cathedral in the sky. Up until a minute ago, she felt lost. But now she knows exactly where she is, and is surprised to be an hour’s walk from Joel’s apartment. She should turn around, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to keep going.
Amid all the gray mist, buildings, and clothing, an artist’s colorful stall sticks out like a picture that doesn’t belong. She’s usually in such a rush to get somewhere or do something that she never takes the time to stop and admire. But this time she does, drawn to the vibrant paintings like a moth to a flickering flame.
“See anything you like?” the artist asks, sliding out from under his tattered tent. Naomi imagines it must have been white when he first bought it, but has since become so dirty that it almost looks yellow. She feels a twinge of guilt and sadness. Yet another starving artist failing to make their dream come true, unlike the subjects of his multicolored portraits—icons like Marilyn Monroe, Michael Jackson, and Heath Ledger. Naomi lets out a sarcastic huff, realizing that even though his subjects “made it,” they all met tragic, early ends.
“Just looking,” she says, out of habit. The man nods, deflated. She can tell from his baggy clothes and thin frame that he could use the money. “I mean, these are all beautiful,” she corrects. “I’m just trying to figure out which one I’m going to buy.”
His eyes brighten. “Thank you.”
Naomi continues to study the paintings, her eyes glossing over other celebrities’ faces who also met premature ends. Aaliyah, Kobe Bryant, Paul Walker, Selena Quintanilla, and… Naomi pauses. “Is that Paul McCartney? Isn’t he alive?”
The man looks up at her, a strange look in his eyes. “Paul is dead,” he replies, matter-of-fact.
Naomi opens her mouth to argue but stops herself. Maybe something happened to him and she was the one out of the loop? But then she remembers Joel mentioning the theory that some fans believed he was dead, so she pulls out her phone and googles “Paul McCartney death.”
At the top of the search results is an excerpt from the “Paul is dead” Wikipedia page.
“Paul is dead” is an urban legend and conspiracy theory alleging that English pop musician Paul McCartney of the Beatles died in 1966 and was secretly replaced by a look-alike.
Naomi smirks, amused by the crazy conspiracy. It fascinates her how anyone could believe something so outlandish.
Either way, she’s drawn to the piece and the nostalgia of home, reminding her of her mom and the Beatles records she had on display. Usually she avoids sentimental things like that—anything that might make her feel something—but today, she wants to feel. She asks the artist how much and hands him a fifty, letting him keep the change.
With her new piece of art tucked under her arm, she wipes the raindrops off her phone and puts it back in her pocket, staying a moment to look over the edge of the bridge, at the dark water thrashing in the wind below. She hasn’t walked the bridge in years, the last time with her sister.
Naomi remembers waking up to a door slamming at four in the morning that day. Worried, she got up to check on Faye, who had seemingly arrived home in a huff. But Faye refused to open her bedroom door, said she was tired and just wanted to go to sleep. So Naomi let her. That afternoon, Naomi walked in on Faye in the bathroom, studying her naked frame in the mirror, fingers tracing blue bruising on her ribs and wrists.
“What the fuck happened?” Naomi asked, horrified.
Faye slammed the door on her, angry at the invasion of privacy.
“Did someone hurt you?” Naomi pressed, heart pounding.
“No,” Faye snapped. Silence hung in the air, almost as thick as the door between them, until she spoke again.
“I fell down the stupid stairs at the party last night.” Faye’s nasal tone hinted she’d been crying. “And before you start, yes, I was drinking. Yes, I know I need to be more careful. And no, I don’t need a lecture from you, I’m literally fine.”
Even though her intuition told her Faye was lying, Naomi dropped it. She knew her sister well enough to know she wouldn’t get the truth out of her in that moment.
A couple hours later, she convinced Faye to go for a walk with her. They walked all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge, not speaking a word until they stopped at a viewpoint halfway across.
“If something happened, you can tell me. You know that, right?”
Faye linked her arm around Naomi’s and pressed her head on her shoulder. “I know,” she whispered.
Inhaling, Naomi closes her heavy eyes, tears ready to spill over at the memory she’d forgotten about until now. With everything she’s learned recently, and with all the new questions swirling in her mind about what Faye could’ve been involved in before her death, about how she died, Naomi is recollecting the events in a whole new light. An even more disturbing one.
She presses her hand into her shoulder, imagining her sister’s head there once more. She wishes she had never let it go, kept pressing Faye to tell her what really happened. Naomi knew deep down she didn’t just fall down the stairs. Maybe if she had tried harder to get Faye to open up, she’d still be alive.
Naomi recalls the blind item she found last night, the one accusing an A-list actor of rape. She closes her eyes, the thought making her nauseous.
