First Born(29)

‘We can spread them in the garden at home, sweetie,’ says Mum.

Dad coughs.

‘Or, if we have to sell the house, then we’ll spread them in the churchyard in the village. I’m sure the vicar would say a few words. He’s always been very kind.’

I shake my head and say, ‘It’s a lot to take in, Mum.’

‘I know. We’ve had a long day and we still don’t know when the medical examiner will hand her back to us. We should get an update on that tomorrow and then we’ll book a time for the crematorium.’

‘The police don’t want to keep her longer? For forensic tests?’

‘I don’t know, Molly. Paul, what did the detective say?’

‘Martinez told me once the . . .’ He lowers his voice. ‘Once the autopsy is complete, cause of death established, we’ll get her back with us soon. It won’t take long. This week.’

‘We’ll have her back soon,’ says Mum, a tear running down her cheek. ‘I think I need a lie down. I don’t feel well.’

They nap, and I take the time to scan news channels for any updates.

When Mum and Dad are ready we go eat soup and bread in the diner. The quiet pace of the room is comforting. We don’t talk much; we just eat. Too much to process in one day.

They say goodnight and go to bed. I give them my Louisville Slugger. They’re not surprised. They know me. Mum accepts it with a weary smile, probably just to appease me. Then I sneak out and buy a bubble tea from Jimmy and he says, ‘I still got your bag, I haven’t looked inside.’

‘You can look inside if you want.’

‘I don’t want.’

I walk down Fifth Avenue past the New York Public Library, past the Empire State Building and past the Flatiron Building, until I reach Murray Hill Tactical.

There are no other women in the shop. From the sale section I buy a self-defence belt made from reinforced leather with a solid bronze buckle. A guy with a handlebar moustache says, ‘Yeah, that’ll break a car windshield with one swipe, so imagine what it’d do to a perp.’

I ask what else I can carry in New York City and he blows air through his teeth and says, ‘There ain’t much, truth be told. You can’t have a firearm, obviously. I can sell you a mil-spec torch with a strobe at three thousand lumens – that’d temporarily blind a bad dude. How about that?’

I need to be able to defend myself. My parents. ‘I’ll take two.’

‘I haven’t told you the price yet.’

‘How much?’

‘Sixty bucks a pop.’

‘I’ll take one, then.’

‘No law against walking round with a bat and a ball but you gotta have the ball, see. That’s important. You haven’t got a baseball on your person and you’re in big trouble.’

‘Pepper spray?’

‘You go to a licensed pharmacy and get yourself a pocket-size bottle of capsicum self-defence spray. Not expensive.’

‘I will.’

‘Anything else?’

‘How about this?’

He shows me a 140-decibel attack alarm. ‘Only seven bucks on special.’

‘I’ll take three.’

He bags it all up and I walk back up Fifth Avenue. I buy a cup of tea and a pastrami sandwich for a homeless woman. I get three pepper spray canisters from Walgreens. There’s a pipe sticking up out of the middle of the road near Madison Square Park and it has steam pumping out. A chimney from the bowels of the earth.

In bed I scroll through my notifications: weather, natural disasters, political strife, anything connected to the US east coast. Nothing too troubling. I take a deep breath and start looking through KT’s secret emails.

Some of the messages are flirty and some of them are downright explicit. I read through a few dozen messages back and forth with several people who I assume are not Scott, before I come across one email from early May that does grab my attention.

It talks about helping to get rid of a neighbour from her apartment.

Then it goes on to the morning sex they had in the Park Hyatt, Chicago.

It talks about the breakfast they had in bed after, and how he was sorry.

It talks about the Little League game he had to leave for.

It talks about her term papers he had to grade.





Chapter 16


Next morning I email Professor Eugene Groot PhD from the discomfort of my narrow hostel bed. I introduce myself politely and ask if I could have half an hour of his time. That seems reasonable after he ignored my first message. I tell him I can travel up to Columbia to meet him at his office.

Mum and Dad are talking urns and coffins and flower choices, and it feels too distant from reality for me to comprehend. They want a mahogany urn that they can get engraved back home in Nottingham. They think it’ll be best to spread some of her ashes in the churchyard, probably just close family members in attendance, and then keep the rest in the urn to memorialise KT. I drift away and start imagining her autopsy scars, the rough Frankenstein stitches holding her lifeless body together, her skin cold and greying, and I have to physically shake the idea from my head. I’m nauseous. What kind of twisted mind do I have where I can visualise her like that? Visualise myself like that?

‘We can go to Pret if you like, Moll?’ says Dad.