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 think Don’t think so isn’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.
I get through the rest of the class and then walk quickly to the staff room. I grab my tuna and egg salad from the fridge so that I can pretend to eat it back at my desk. I say pretend, because I don’t touch it. I can’t eat anything, let alone tuna and egg, but I tell