Woman on the Edge(18)

Love her for me, Morgan.

Why me?

Jessica clicks on her high beams. She must be wondering why I’m just sitting there, staring out the window. She cocks her chin at the back door. “Do you want me to come up with you?”

I shake my head. I trust Jessica even if she doesn’t fully trust me. Twice, I’ve left the same police station a free person because of her. But I haven’t really been free. And now, what will happen? What will people think? I wish I didn’t care. But of course I do. I feel very alone.

We say good night, and I head inside. The elevator dings open to my floor and I step off, my sandals sliding a bit on the cheap oatmeal-colored carpet of the hallway. I open my door and almost fall to the hardwood floor in gratitude. I’m finally home, greeted by my familiar sage walls and silence.

I make little more than minimum wage at Haven House, and a suicide clause voided the insurance policies Ryan and I maintained during our six-year marriage. Our joint accounts were drained in restitution to all the people he stole from. I sold all my jewelry, except a few pieces that belonged to my grandmother, and all my designer clothes, but it will never be enough to repay the people Ryan destroyed. My mother refused to take any money from me. “The damage is done, Morgan,” she’d said.

My father taught me to keep a private account, where I socked away half my paychecks for years. I offered as much of my savings as I could to the victims Ryan swindled, with only enough left to afford Jessica’s legal fees, rent, and basic needs. It’s enough for me. I never wanted to be rich. I just wanted a family.

I look around my small apartment—two cramped bedrooms, a postage-stamp-size kitchen, and a bathroom with a shower and tub. I have a secondhand fuchsia couch. Bright colors help lift the dark sadness that weighs me down inside. I collapse on my couch and rest for a moment. Then I have an idea. I dump out the contents of my purse. Maybe Nicole left other clues in there, anything that might lead me closer to knowing what really happened at Grand/State and why.

But once my wallet, phone, car keys, lipstick, gum, pepper spray, purple note, and lint are strewn over the couch, my bag is empty. So that one Post-it is all I have to go on. The name “Amanda,” which means nothing to me. Is she Nicole’s sister? A friend? If not her baby, then who?

I shove everything back in. On my skin, I smell sweat and sadness and fear, the smell of a trapped animal.

I need to feel clean. I head to my very basic bathroom and turn the water as hot as I can take it. I strip down and hop in the shower. I scrub myself raw. I can’t stop tearing apart the dry, rough skin on my neck. I feel my sharp collarbone and bony hips. I miss my roundness, even the small belly I once bemoaned, which is now concave and laced with stretch marks from sudden and extreme weight loss. I was never thin until Ryan died. It pains me that I still miss him.

I miss my father, too. I miss his bellowing laugh at stupid jokes, his hard hugs. He always made me feel like the most beautiful and interesting woman in the room. I hate that I will never feel his comfort again.

The tears come fast and furious. I crouch in the shower, the scalding water sending needles of pain down my back. I wail like I haven’t since my father’s casket was lowered into the ground. I give in, to all my losses and regrets. I accept it all. But there are two things I can’t accept: I didn’t take that baby, and I didn’t push her mother off the platform.

Finally, shivering and soaking and emotionally drained, I turn off the shower and stop sobbing. I dry and cover myself in a scratchy towel. In my bedroom, I open my dresser drawer to find leggings and a T-shirt to sleep in. Quickly throwing them on, I go to close the drawer when I see a pair of rose-colored Breathe pants. A sob builds again, but I force it down. Enough, I tell myself. You have to get yourself together.

I grab my phone from my purse and my computer from the coffee table. I mostly avoid going online, since social media and blogs ruined my reputation after Ryan was exposed. But the Internet seems like the place to search for any reason Nicole might have sought me out.

I head to my room and lie back on my bed, in the middle, though by the morning, I’ll end up on the left like I always do, as though Ryan still sleeps beside me on the right.

I take a deep breath and turn on my computer. The ticker tape at the top of my search engine reads: “CEO of Breathe Athleisure-Wear Dead at Thirty-Six Under Suspicious Circumstances.”

It’s real and it’s out there. I read the first five posts. The video is mentioned, but it’s been taken down, so the link is broken. There are scant details, but what’s concerning is that they haven’t confirmed suicide—it’s as though there’s doubt that she jumped. There is one line about the police questioning a person of interest who spoke to the victim before she died, someone who was holding Nicole’s baby after she landed on the tracks. My name isn’t mentioned. Yet. How long do I have before it’s splashed across a lurid headline?

To know they’re talking about me exhausts me. I shut down my computer. I won’t learn anything else right now because I can’t stop my eyes from closing. I can’t think straight. I’ll just take a quick nap to restore myself, then I’ll continue researching.



* * *




When my phone rings, I don’t know why my cheeks are damp with tears or why my eyes feel puffy and sore. Birds chirp, and the sun streams in through my small window where I’ve hung sheer peach curtains. I realize that for the first time in a long while, I’ve slept through the night and, for a second, all seems right with the world. Then I remember. Grand/State. Nicole. Amanda. Quinn. The video.