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Another bout of knocks sounds from the door.
Who let him in? This is why I pay an offensive amount of money every month for around-the-clock security. So people don’t knock on my door in the middle of the night. Whoever is in charge of reception tonight is going to get the boot.
The doorbell chimes. Once. Twice. Three times.
“I’m coming.” Never have I said these words with so little enthusiasm.
“Someone better be dead . . . ,” I mutter as I shove my feet into my slippers, dragging myself to the door, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a scornful scowl.
Flinging my door open, I start with, “Listen here, you waste of worldly resources. I don’t care if you’re leaving for Africa on Monday and Christian doesn’t want you to bring your hookup to his house like it’s a low-budget Airbnb . . .”
The rest of the words die in my throat. It isn’t Riggs. In fact, it isn’t anyone I know.
On my threshold are two people—a man and a woman—in dark-blue NYPD uniforms and grave frowns. They both look like they’ve just swallowed a full-size hedgehog.
I’ve had my brush with law enforcement in the past, but it is usually the IRS and SEC who rain trouble on my ass, not the honest-to-God police officers. I’m a white-collar man, with white-collar problems. Perhaps someone decided to off themselves next door and they want to know if I heard anything. Damn socialites and their chaotic lifestyles.
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Who died?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Corbin.” The woman bows her head.
Well, then. Someone did die, and it’s someone I know.
I’m fresh out of parents, and my social circle is limited to those I absolutely must tolerate. I’m guessing . . . Riggs? He seems dumb enough to find his immature death. Maybe a Tinder date gone wrong.
Can’t be Christian. He is too responsible to get himself into trouble.
The man says, “I’m Officer Damien Lopez, and this is my colleague, Officer Hannah Del Gallo.”
“Thanks for the niceties. Now move on to the punch line,” I bite out, not in the mood for chitchat.
“Are you Gracelynn Langston’s fiancé?” he asks.
My heart, untouchable merely seconds before, now feels like it’s being clenched in their fists. Not her.
“Yeah. Why?”
“We’re very sorry.” The woman bites on her lips. Her chin trembles. “But your fiancée was involved in a plane crash. She died on impact.”
It’s not true.
I can’t really explain why it isn’t true; I just know that it’s not.
Which is why I don’t call anyone.
It seems hysterical, idiotic, and unnecessary. I’m not going to believe it until they show me proof.
I make my way to the hospital’s morgue in my own car to identify the body. The officers will meet me there.
One of the officers—Hannah—told me she called Miranda Langston, Grace’s official next-of-kin. She said Miranda is coming down from Connecticut to the morgue, but that understandably, it might take her till morning. I haven’t spoken to Miranda in over a decade, save for the taciturn exchange of condolences during Douglas’s funeral. But it occurs to me that she might not even know her daughter and I are engaged. In the spirit of having a fucked-up relationship to the highest degree, Grace and I never really discuss her mother in any form or capacity.
Which clearly doesn’t matter, since Grace is alive, and this is all a terrible misunderstanding that will end in someone being sued.
Grace can’t be gone. We’ve only just begun our lives together. We have plans. A wedding to organize. A honeymoon booked. She still hasn’t quit, birthed our babies, had her dream nuptials. Her bucket list is still full, sloshing about with plans and ideas.
Every time I stop at a traffic light, I scroll through the local news on my phone, trying to find reports about a United Airlines plane crashing. There are none. With each passing second, my suspicion this is a simple human error intensifies.
This is purely a case of identity mix-up. I’m sure of it. Grace flies United Airlines twice a month. The flight she is on is currently above the Atlantic, making its way to Zurich.
To think she is asleep, her cheek squished against a freezing window in first class, unaware of this entire mess floods me with warm satisfaction. I try to call her again, but her phone goes to voice mail.
This is not weird, I remind myself. Her phone is always turned off when she travels to Zurich.
Maybe it’s all a big fat prank.
I arrive at the hospital in a daze. Park. Stumble out of the car.
Relax, idiot, she is fine. It’s not her.
Even if it isn’t, I’m not particularly hot on seeing anyone’s corpse tonight, or any other night.
I head to the basement floor, where the morgue is, passing the loading dock area. The stench of hospital cleaning products assaults my nostrils. It deepens with each step I take, until my lungs burn. I need to get out of here.
