I can’t see him and for one beautiful moment I think maybe he’s playing a joke on me, until I see his bare foot. His body is wedged between the brick wall of the building and a dumpster. A piece of metal has pierced his torso and anyone can see that he’s dead. I clasp my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming and drop to the floor, my back against the wall.
I have to get help. I crawl to the living room, stumble upright and snatch up my bag from where I left it on the couch. It’s a tanned soft leather bag with a single shoulder strap and Luis had once joked that searching for something in it was like shoving your hand inside a giant mushroom. I think about that now, the giant mushroom, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. Am I tripping? Did Alex give me something in that coffee and walk out of the apartment? Is this some kind of prank?
No. I didn’t touch my coffee. I empty the bag on the floor because that’s the quickest way to locate my phone. I snatch it with shaking hands, then stop.
Alex is dead. I’m sure of it. Should I ring the university first? Or should I ring his parents? What will I say to them? I should ring the ambulance. That’s it. That’s what I need to do. My finger hovers over the first digit, 9.
And tell them what, exactly?
He was going to leave my name off the paper and then he fell out the window.
I remember the letter he gave me earlier, lying on the kitchen table. I pick it up with shaking fingers. It’s typed on thick, cream-colored stationery.
Dear Anna,
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