Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Sitting here alone, pushing salad pieces around my plate with a fork to make it look like I’ve eaten more than I have, I realize it’s the first time I’ve been in a restaurant since—well, you. We spent three hundred bucks on dinner and barely uttered two words to each other that night.
Emotion swells in me. I set cash on the table and gather my things, leaving before they do, before Gabriel can lay eyes on me. And before I start sobbing, gaining the unwanted attention of everyone around me. Because I feel it coming. Feel the emotions whirling around like a tornado building strength, ready to touch down where it’s least expected.
I don’t bother waiting for them to come out. I know where he lives, where he works, and the one place he seems to frequent in between—that storage unit that holds God knows what. Instead, I walk east, ignoring the cold sprinkle of rain from the sky. A subway station appears, and I descend beneath the city, hopping on the first train I see. I ride for what feels like too many stops, then climb the stairs back to the street.
The Financial District.
I guess I did ride pretty far downtown. I start walking, no particular destination in mind. But when I see the street sign for Maiden Lane, I remember that’s where the Office of Professional Misconduct is. I still have the paper Dr. Alexander signed in my purse, so I might as well make something about today productive.
The sign on the front door is imposing, the letters larger than necessary. Professional Misconduct. It’s the adult version of how I felt going anywhere near the principal’s office as a child. Still, I take a deep breath and walk in.
“Hi. I need to submit a paper for a case. It came with a return envelope, but I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d drop it by.”
“Sure,” the clerk says. “Do you have the case number?”
I nod. “It’s on the top of the paper.”
She takes the form and scans it. “Oh. That’s funny. I was just working on this file earlier today. I had a FOIA request on it.”
My brows pinch. “A FOIA request?”
She nods. “Someone requested a copy of the entire case file under the Freedom of Information Act.”
“Who?”
The clerk’s face changes. She purses her lips like she’s caught herself speaking out of turn. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“But who would request a copy of my file?”
She shrugs. “Could be anyone. Cases that result in charges are a matter of public record.”
“Was it someone from the media?” No one has bothered with me since the story about Connor fizzled from the headlines. It has been months now.
“You’d have to fill out the form online to get that information.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
I sigh. “Okay. Thank you. Do I need to do anything else to file that paper?”
“Nope. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
I step back out onto the street, feeling even more glum than I did when I came in. My shoulders hunch and my feet feel heavy, like my shoes are made of concrete, but I go back to walking. Because what else do I have to do? I walk a few miles, not really paying attention to where I’m going, until I reach a dead end. Iron gates practically smack me in the face. A cemetery. Seems an appropriate enough place to end my day. So I keep walking, find the entrance, crunch the browning grass beneath my feet with every step, and start reading gravestones as I pass.
Philip Morrow. 1931–1976. Beloved father, husband, and son.
Matilda Holtz. 1876–1945. Too well loved to ever be forgotten.
Julia Einhard. 1954–1960. Our angel in heaven.
I swallow a lump in my throat and taste salt. Julia was only six.
Gabriel’s daughter will never get to turn six.
I close my eyes. What am I doing? I don’t belong here. And I’m suddenly exhausted. So I turn to leave the cemetery. A small brick hut sits at the exit, and I pause, thinking of them…
Gabriel’s wife.
His daughter.
“Excuse me,” I call through the window.
An attendant turns away from a form she’s filling out and peers over her glasses at me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Is there…” I hesitate. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s not my business. But I haven’t been so good at staying within the boundaries of healthy thus far, so why start now? “Is there a way to find out if someone’s buried here? I recently lost some friends, but I’m not sure if they were buried here or somewhere else. I’d like to bring flowers.” The lie streams out of my mouth easily.
“Of course. What are their names?”
“The last name is Wright. Ellen and Rose. They would have been buried last year.”
“Hmmm…” She types into the computer. “No Wright interred here since about five years ago.”