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Firstly, I want to thank you for being my thesis advisor, and for everything you’ve done to make me feel welcome at Locke Weidman.
I’ve decided to publish my work alone. That includes the paper based on my thesis. I know that we had discussed you being cited as co-author, but upon further reflection I have come to the conclusion that there’s no reason at all for your name to be included. To be honest, I’m concerned that having you as co-author will lend your contribution more weight than is warranted.
I trust you’ll understand and respect my position.
Please forward any written material in your possession.
Below that he’d added in a handwritten scrawl, like an afterthought:
Sorry,
Alex
I put a hand over my eyes. They’ll think I did it. Of course they will. They’ll read the letter, then they’ll say I pushed him in a fit of rage. They won’t believe me when I explain that he just jumped. He was there, then he wasn’t. Because that’s what happened here, isn’t it?
Will I go to jail? Yes, of course I’ll go to jail. Our doctoral students die. We kill them. Or I kill them. That’s what they’ll say in the newspaper headlines, the blogs, the social media posts and talk-back radio.
Killer.
And for some insane reason I think of my mother and I can almost hear the soft click of her tongue, impatient and disappointed.
I return to the window, slowly, like a cat, listening the entire time. Every sound seems amplified, like I have bionic hearing. Distant traffic, a dog barking, the clanging of a distant hammer in a construction site. No sirens. Yet.
Okay. I need to breathe. Focus. I think of my children as I crumple the letter and shove it in my pocket. I wash the cup and wipe it dry with the tea towel before putting it back in its place on the shelf. Not that I’m concerned about prints or DNA but best not to raise questions about who was there this morning with Alex.
In the living room I’m on my knees as I frantically gather everything I dropped earlier, my heart bouncing around my chest: two tampons, a packet of tissues, a long-lost silver pen, make-up, sunglasses, wallet, keys, loose receipts. An unopened packet of mints. An ID pass on a lanyard for a panel I attended at UCLA last year. A throat soother stuck in its wrapper, the sight of which makes me want to burst into tears. I remembered Mateo doing that, sucking on it and changing his mind, putting it back in its wrapper and dropping it in my bag. I shove it all back into my purse and I’m almost hyperventilating as I dart around the room for anything else of mine. Then finally, softly, quietly, I open the front door.
I’m about to check the hallway when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I push the door closed again, my heart pounding as I hold my breath, praying that it’s not his roommate. In my head I’m already making excuses as to why I’m here, alone, when the footsteps continue past this floor, up another flight, and I let my breath out. On impulse I grab a light beige beanie from the coat rack and push it down over my ears, then I put my sunglasses on.
I slip out and almost run down the stairs. I only need a minute, less, thirty seconds, and I’ll be outside. But just as I reach the last flight of stairs, someone comes into the building.
I hold my breath and keep my head down as I slip pass. I catch a flash of dark hair and the glimmer of a silver and purple ring on an index finger.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
I step out onto the sidewalk and run to my car.
Six
I shove the beanie in the glove compartment and drive off. My heart is still pounding. Every sense is heightened. Every sound is a roar. Even the breeze on my skin feels like a hurricane.
Did anybody see me? I visualize the wall opposite Alex’s window. It’s a plain brick wall, the side of an old warehouse building. No windows that I can remember. The alley is narrow, empty except for trash cans and the dumpster. He didn’t make a sound when he fell, which is possibly the strangest part. How long was I in the apartment after that? I don’t know. Two minutes? Five maybe?
I try to remember if I told anyone I was going to see Alex, but no, I don’t think so. Then I thinkDon’t think soisn’t good enough so I rack my brain, retrace my steps. There’s the call, of course, from this morning, but that’s not unusual.
In the parking lot back at the university, I pull out the letter, as if, somehow, that’s going to tell me something. I smooth its creases against my thigh and begin to read it again just as a loud bang above me makes my heart somersault.
“You okay, ma’am?”
It’s the attendant, or maybe a security guard: I can’t tell, but he’s wearing a uniform. I realize he tapped the roof of my car to get my attention. I wind my window down. “Yes, thank you.”
“Okay, then.”
How long have I been sitting here? I tear the letter in as many pieces as I can and grab the beanie from the glove compartment. I shove the lot in the trashcan near the elevator, then make my way upstairs, drop my things off and go to teach my next class.
I am normally a very engaged teacher. I ask questions as I go, make sure I’m not losing anyone along the way. But today, I teach the class on autopilot. I don’t even snap at Melanie—one of my brightest first years, but with an attitude problem—when she puts one leg up on the foldaway tablet arm of her chair. About a third of my class is young women, which is not unusual in the first year. They’ll fall away, though, most of them anyway, over the next three years. At the beginning of term, I usually play a mental game where I try to guess which ones will stick it out. Melanie is one of them: she’s so smart, and I really believe she loves the subjects, but she puts people off with her insolence. Especially me. She seems to have zeroed in on the fact that I’m a bit of a pushover and unconvincing in my admonitions. Whenever I tell her off—half-heartedly, as she scares me a little—she’ll double down and pop a bubble of gum moments later.
At one stage I hear her scoff something like,Hello?and I realize I haven’t said anything in a while. That’s because I heard muffled voices out in the corridor and I thought,This is it. They know. They’re going to burst in the door and announce that Alex is dead. Except it doesn’t happen and the voices move on.
