Woman on the Edge(10)
My heart pounds inside my chest. “She shoved her into my arms. I was shocked and held her. I was actually worried I’d drop her, so I held her tightly. As I was looking down at that beautiful little baby, her mother jumped.” My voice hitches, and tears spill down my cheeks. “I … I couldn’t even stop it. It all happened so fast.”
Martinez hands me a Kleenex, but there’s nothing gentle about the way she thrusts it at me.
“I don’t think you’re telling me everything,” she says.
I flinch. “Everything I’ve said is the truth.”
“It’s not what you’ve said that’s untrue. It’s what you’re not saying, Morgan. Officers on-site at the platform have taken witness statements. People saw it all happen. And they heard her, the woman who jumped. Morgan, they heard her say your name.”
Dread presses on my chest. I scratch my collarbone and wonder to myself why I kept that detail from her. “Yes, but I wasn’t even sure I heard right. It was all so scary and sudden. I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling you what I know. I’d never seen her before. I’d never met or spoken to her ever before. I don’t know who she was or how she knows me or why she talked to me at all.”
There. I’ve told her everything, everything except the purple note. What if she knows about that, too? Should I wait for Jessica, or should I pull that out of my purse and confess?
Martinez takes a breath, crosses her arms. “Were you wearing a name tag today, maybe for work? Or personalized jewelry? Anything that would tell her your name?”
I think it through. I come up blank. “No.”
Martinez stares hard at me, then picks up the Chicago Tribune sitting at the edge of the table. She slaps it open. She points at an article. “You know the victim, Morgan. She’s Nicole Markham, the CEO of the Breathe clothing line. So what’s your relationship with her?”
I can’t silence my gasp. In the photo is a beautiful woman with chestnut curls. Her legs are long and lean in silver heels, and she’s dressed in a tight, stretchy coral skirt and fitted white V-neck shirt. She looks the very picture of a high-powered, totally together female CEO. Is this really the same panic-stricken, bedraggled woman who pleaded with me to love her baby before jumping to her death? I can see it’s her, but the transformation is horrible, a makeover played out in reverse.
And of course I know the company Breathe. Who doesn’t? I even own some of their signature yoga leggings. But I’m not familiar with Nicole Markham. It’s not like I know her personally. Why would this power maven, a complete stranger, ask me to keep her baby safe? How did she know me? And safe from what?
Then an idea hits me. “My name was in the news for a bit after Ryan died. Maybe she knew me from that?”
I don’t say, “Now that my name is falsely connected to embezzlement,” but I’m sure Martinez gets my point. “Or maybe Breathe has a connection to Haven House, where I work?” Few people even know the shelter exists; its location in a nondescript brown building on West Illinois Street is well hidden to safeguard the women and children who escape there.
Martinez taps the heel of her black pump on the floor. “We’ll look into the Haven House files.” She tosses me a glance that seems sympathetic, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It must be hard being alone. Now that your husband is gone.”
It is. I have no friends or family in Chicago anymore. After Ryan died, I realized my only friends during our marriage were his friends. He’d cheated them all and made me out to look like an accomplice. Even the friends I’d had from college and work winnowed away in the aftermath of his suicide. I was alone, with only my pain and loss for company. But I won’t tell Martinez any of that because she’s fishing for something. I don’t know what.
Martinez’s lips curl in distaste when I don’t say a word.
“Morgan, it’s always been a bit hard for me to believe that you didn’t know your husband was stealing from his investors and defrauding the Light-the-Way Fund, a charity you founded. You lived with him, day in and out. You seem like a sharp woman. It’s true we could never exactly prove that you knew what he was up to, but there’s something about you that always seems so … unforthcoming. And here it is once more.” She leans back, looking again at Nicole Markham’s photo. “The CEO of Breathe is dead, and you were holding her baby on the edge of a subway platform. She said your name. Can you see why I think you knew each other?”
For Martinez to use my horrific, traumatic experience to trip me up suddenly infuriates me. I bolt out of my chair, knocking the water bottle over.
I point my finger at her. “Everyone thinks they know everything about me, and you know nothing,” I say, my voice choked with more tears I don’t want to shed.
Martinez eyes my raised finger. The clack of high heels in the hall diverts my attention. I shakily sit back down, my whole body sagging with relief when Jessica enters the room.
Jessica’s so tall that even though I’m more than average height, I always feel short next to her. Her dark skin is smooth and clear, her belted teal dress, like all her clothing, so well suited to her. The first time we met, I asked if she was once a model.
She and Martinez greet each other politely, then Jessica pulls out the chair beside me and sits down, putting her hand on my shoulder.