First Born(34)

‘Did they say anything else?’ I say.

‘They asked where your father and I went shopping that dreadful afternoon.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Your mum went to Macy’s. I went to the Apple store. Just window-shopping.’

‘Are they close to arresting someone yet?’ I ask.

‘Martinez couldn’t tell us,’ says Dad, picking up his muffin. ‘He just said they were working on the assumption that the perpetrator knew Katie. There was no sign of a struggle and there were no reports of screaming or shouting. The doors and windows were secure and nobody heard any scuffles. It seems like Katie let the killer in. Or else the killer had a key to her apartment.’

‘But why would she let a killer in? Why would she do that?’

Mum looks at me. ‘Because she trusted them.’





Chapter 18


Our morning hostel activity revolves around our two doors, and the hallway immediately outside. We make sure we hold the bathroom for each other so at least we protect that semblance of normality. Wet hair, thin H&M robes Mum bought on Fifth Avenue the night she moved here and realised the bathrooms were communal, washbags under arms, disposable slippers Mum brought from the Best Western.

From the outside we look like a normal family.

Mum and Dad have to pick an outfit for KT for her cremation tomorrow. Just saying these words inside my head is hideous. Picking her an outfit? How on earth did we get to this point? All her life, she was near us, she was safe. And then she moved to New York and all this happened.

I call Violet.

‘Hey, Molly. I was just thinking about you. How are you holding up?’

Traffic noise in the background.

‘Can we meet, please? For a quick coffee or something. I know you’re busy but I need to ask about KT’s sponsorship. I need to find a few more pieces of this puzzle before I fly back to England.’

‘I got class now but I’m done by eleven. Meeting Scottie actually. You want to do a threesome?’

The phrase seems wholly inappropriate, especially as Scott was sleeping with someone identical to me.

‘The three of us could have coffee? Sure. Then I can ask him some questions, too.’

‘Or a dirty water hot dog? How about it? I’m hungover as fuck. You had a NYC dirty water hot dog yet, Molly?’

‘I don’t think it’s for me.’

She laughs.

‘Meet us on the corner of 72nd and Broadway. Eleven-fifteen.’

‘I’ll be there.’

I walk out to Jimmy’s food cart. ‘Morning.’

‘Hey, Molly. Smoothie? Fresh papaya?’

‘I’ll take a coffee, please.’

He looks at me like how do you take it?

‘Black with one sugar.’

‘Coming up.’

‘You miss home, Jimmy?’

He makes the coffee and talks over his shoulder. ‘I miss my cousins and my nephews and I miss my old neighbours. But I’m a New Yorker now. I miss the food back there, and the heat. I miss some things, I guess.’ He hands me the coffee. ‘But this is my home. Best city on the planet.’

‘I still find it scary here,’ I say.

‘The way I see it, Molly, you gonna die of something some time, you may as well just relax and make the most of the day you’re in right now.’

‘I wish I could do that.’

He starts rearranging the fruit out on display: guavas and mangos and oranges and kiwi. ‘You will. Only way to survive in New York is to just let it happen. Face it all head-on and ride the wave. Wall Street guy once said to me, Just turn up and do good shit every day. Turn up and do it. Simple as that. Some people overthink these things but I don’t reckon us New Yorkers got the time.’

I decide to walk up to 72nd Street because I’m starting to get my bearings, at least in this small area of Manhattan, and because walking helps me think. My favourite place in London is Hampstead Heath in September. Hyde Park is nice, but it’s still in the centre of the city and the ground’s too compacted. At least on Hampstead Heath the ground’s soft in places. It’s big enough and wild enough to almost feel like my childhood village, the one my parents will surely have to leave next year after the bank forecloses on their home. Our home. I thought I’d be more unsettled by the thought of it but it’s nothing compared to what we’ve all been living through the past few days.

The area around Columbus Circle is pretty overwhelming: too much traffic and too many people. I cross and skirt the southwest corner of the park.

Mum and Dad seemed more settled this morning. I think it’s because they finally know how KT died. We have the how but we do not have the who or the why. Meaning I have about thirty-six hours to come up with something I can give to Martinez and DeLuca.

I pass the YMCA where I met Violet that time, and head up towards Broadway.

The evidence suggests that the perpetrator knew KT. That she trusted him. It suggests the perpetrator is strong, enough brute force to pin her to her bed. KT was a swimmer. She had real upper body strength.

I think about Scott Sbarra and how he has the potential. Strong enough to push a pillow into his girlfriend’s face and then just up and leave and act like nothing happened. Free to live his own privileged life, rowing competitively and winning trophies; ending up in some downtown city law firm, becoming an equity partner in his fifties married to some media executive, both of them clearing a million a year with stock options. I then consider Violet, although I don’t think she’s a likely suspect. She doesn’t seem the type. KT trusted her, and why on earth would you smother your own best friend? I walk past the New York City Ballet. Might Groot have hurt KT? Might he have killed a young woman to save his own marriage? To silence her?