We Were Never Here(26)

Eventually I fell into a restless, jagged sleep, woke in the dark, and then lay awake the rest of the night.



* * *



—

Kibble’s office was in a skinny turn-of-the-century tower on Rogers Street, with an ancient, creaking elevator and an ancient, creaking security guy who never looked up from the front desk as people came and went, even as I said hello twice a day. The workspace lacked the techie, technicolor flair I associated with start-ups; instead it was a beehive of old desks all facing the same way, partitioned off by ugly gray cubicle walls. Still, there was iced coffee on tap in the kitchen and floor-to-ceiling windows and parquet floors that made coordinating supply chains and launching lines for feline urinary care…if not pleasant, certainly tolerable. And there was a democratic feel among the twenty-odd employees. The sole Kibble worker with an office was Russell, the founder and CEO, who was only a couple years older than me.

    Normally I didn’t mind coming to work after a trip—I looked forward to it, even. But as I rode the elevator up on my first day back, dread ballooned in my torso. I’d thought about calling Kristen before work, but it was the middle of the night in Sydney. How would I get through today without her quiet empathy, her reassuring confidence? And, jeez, how could I expect her to be there for me when she was the one who’d been attacked? She deserved a friend she could count on, the way I’d leaned on her after Cambodia.

As the elevator doors slid open, I paled. How was I supposed to sit at my scratched desk and poke at spreadsheets when Paolo’s body was just…there, decaying under a thin layer of dirt, waiting for someone to find him?

“Welcome home!” Priya bounded over, ponytail shaking, and wrapped me in a hug. “I am so glad you’re back.”

I spread a smile across my face like frosting. Priya and I had met a couple years ago, volunteering at a fundraiser for a nearby animal rescue; though my landlord didn’t allow pets, I loved ogling the shelter’s adorable Instagram and decided to help out at a one-day event. An organizer had paired us off in the morning, and by lunchtime, we were friends. She’d been the one to tell me about the job opening here—she was Kibble’s copywriter.

“I missed you!” I told her. “And I brought you something.” A miniature bottle of pisco clinked in my purse.

“Was it amazing? It was amazing, right?” She accompanied me to my desk.

I widened my smile. I wanted to cry. Days later, the soreness from dragging and digging still hadn’t let up its hold, and it matched the feeling in my chest: pain both broad and sharp. “It was unforgettable,” I managed, “but I’m glad to be home.”



* * *



—

I couldn’t stop poring over the news. I felt a jolt every time I refreshed CNN, like when you turn on music with the volume way too high. I scrolled and scrolled in search of any mention of a missing person. I knew I couldn’t google it, not even in private-browsing mode, because last year Kristen had hissed that the function wasn’t secure—anyone with your IP address could still track you down.

    But nothing happened. Co-workers breezed by my desk to ask about Chile, but as is always the case with vacation recaps, they weren’t all that interested. There was an e-commerce relaunch to jump back into. I could only devote maybe 20 percent of my attention to drawing up production schedules and futzing with budgets, but that was 20 percent on anything other than Paolo.

Has his family noticed he’s missing yet? Has anyone raised the alarm?



* * *



—

That night I dreamed that Kristen and I were back at Northwestern, during the summer before senior year when we stayed in town and sublet a banged-up apartment on Clark. In the dream—as in my memories—we were sitting on the lakefill, gazing out at the black water and growing excited as the sky turned indigo and the stars began to fade. We said nothing, just watched in awe as the sun nudged through the watery horizon. Sunrise over Lake Michigan—we only managed to stay up for it three times during our tenure there, but it was always special, private, ours.

Then I opened my eyes, and the messed-up reality came crashing in.

I reached for my phone—the instinct to talk to Kristen was an itch, looping and loud, like when we lay in our tent in Uganda and felt the throb of dozens of tsetse-fly bites. Paolo consumed my thoughts and I craved a release, the chance to discuss it to death. Do you still think we’re okay? Is there anything we forgot? Can you believe that all happened?? But of course, I couldn’t say any of that—Kristen wouldn’t let us incriminate ourselves over the phone. I felt the secret pushing out of me, blowing up like a bubble and rising in my throat.

Another day of work. Somehow I sat through meetings and replied to emails and listened to gossip in the break room. Aaron and I texted throughout the day, the casual banter of the newly dating, and I clung to the dopamine spurt I got every time his name appeared on my lock screen. I waited in line for overpriced burrito bowls with Priya, taking in her patter of Tinder-date stories. All the while my id threatened to commandeer my throat, scream it aloud: We buried a man soaked in his own blood. It wouldn’t even be the whole truth. Only half, one body of two.

    Kristen and I scheduled a call for the evening. Be careful not to mention The Thing, Emily, in case anybody’s listening. My heart pounded as I sat on my couch, earbuds in, waiting.