Chapter 5 Now

After a week, I know his schedule. I rise early and start walking the streets of Manhattan as they wake up around me. But I don't rush. I meander. I know I have time before Gabriel leaves his building.

Coffee at the stand on the corner. Perusing the news as I wait for a bagel. Watching the ever-changing leaves turn from yellow to orange to red, a little each day. I chew a thick pumpernickel bagel smeared with cream cheese and lox and think of Dr. Alexander, his advice to stop stalking Gabriel. I don't see it as stalking. Not really. I have no ill intentions. I just need to know…

I swallow what's in my mouth and pause, envisioning it: Gabriel's face, lit up with happiness.

I need to know it's real.

I fold the rest of the bagel into its paper and toss it in the nearest trash can. The rest of my coffee goes with it, making a satisfying clunk as they hit the bottom. A bookstore is two doors down, and with a quick glance at my watch—Gabriel won't be by for another twenty minutes—I duck inside. The store has just opened, and two employees murmur behind the counter as they sort books. I brush by them to the self-help section.

Build the Life You Want.

Secrets to a Happy Marriage.

Life Sucks. Get Used to It.

I could've written the last one…

My eyes catch on a stand near the checkout section. It's half empty, but what remains are spiral-bound journals with bright splashes of color. Rainbows and sunrises and the sort.

I reach out and pick one up. Scrawled across the front is It's never too late to start writing a new chapter. I stare at it, slipping back into the before world, when I got to see my own patients. When I'd ask them to pick out a journal and write in it every day as part of their therapy. Dr. Alexander assigned no such task, but a little self-assigned homework never hurts. I look to the register, where the two employees are chitchatting away, paying no attention to the patrons. I make a rash decision and tuck the journal into my purse. My heart starts to pound, a frantic whoosh of blood filling my ears. I've never stolen anything in my life. And I'm certain I have a few hundred dollars in my wallet, not to mention two or three credit cards. I have no idea why the hell I do it, but I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin with every step I take toward the door. Once I'm outside, I keep walking, power walking almost, until I get to the end of the block, turn right, and duck into the doorway of a store that isn't open yet. Then I can't help it. I smile. It feels exhilarating.

It takes a few minutes for my heartbeat to slow. A glance at my watch tells me it's time. So I head to my post, stop one on my daily Gabriel Wright tour. He comes out right on time as usual.

It's easy enough to not be seen as I follow. The morning rush of people headed to work, to the gym, to the subway, is my camouflage. He strides down the sidewalk, hands tucked into leather gloves and holding nothing, headed north. I let him pass, wait five seconds, then follow.

Within a couple of minutes, I know where he's heading—the same place he went yesterday. Instead of continuing on to Columbia, he takes a left, then another. This time, I stop across the street and press my phone to my face, turning partially away. He enters the redbrick building lined with dozens of little windows that is Manhattan Mini Storage and disappears through the glass door. The same light flicks on as yesterday. This time I count—twelve tiny windows down from the entrance. I haven't gone as far as to follow him inside yet. I'm too afraid he'll see me. Though I am curious what he's doing in there. Plenty of New Yorkers have storage lockers. With minuscule apartments, it's often a necessity. But yesterday he came with nothing and left with nothing. Was he sorting through boxes? Organizing things? Looking for something in particular? I suppose whatever it was, he didn't find it. Maybe that's why he's back again.

A breeze picks up, whipping my hair around my face. I reach for it, tie it at the nape of my neck, and hazard a glance at the sky. It's been cloudy all morning, but those clouds have darkened. With the high buildings all around me, it's claustrophobia-inducing—like the sky might actually fall on me, and there's no escape. But then, soon enough, Gabriel emerges and my blood starts pumping—the same as when I slipped that journal into my purse and walked out of the bookstore a thief. He's again empty-handed, again headed uptown toward Columbia—and I hurry to not lose him.

His classes are the same on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so after he enters his building, I know I've got two hours before he'll emerge and take a lunch break. I find a bench and sit, withdrawing the journal I stole, feeling in my purse for a pen. Around me, students walk to class, clutching satchels or shouldering backpacks. Few seem dressed warmly enough for the brisk autumn day.

I suddenly feel eyes on me, a steady gaze, and I look up, searching for its source. But there's only a passel of students, a group of sorority girls, all bottle-blond, all wearing matching sweatshirts—no one in particular is watching. Probably I'm imagining it. It makes sense that I feel paranoid, considering what I've done at the bookstore, and that I'm sitting around waiting for a man to come out who doesn't know I've been following him. I search around me once more, but it's just college students crisscrossing campus.

I push the thought aside and write about the past week. About seeing Gabriel in the coffee shop and following him. About wondering how long he can go on pretending to be happy. About the twelfth window in Manhattan Mini Storage, and Columbia University, the sprawling campus in the middle of jam-packed upper Manhattan.

When Gabriel skips down the stairs, presumably headed to lunch, something is different. I notice it right away—the lightness of his step, the lean of his body, the tautness around his eyes. He's not just headed to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich. He's going somewhere to do something.

And I want to know what.

Five minutes later, he opens the door to an Italian café on the edge of campus, and I can't help myself—I duck in after him. My skin chills, forming goose bumps with the knowledge of the risk I'm taking. It's darker in here, low lighting and fake plants in the corners. Square tables with red-checkered tablecloths. Booths and tables, and a woman at the front who's got ten years on me.

"Any table's fine, hon." She waits with a menu in hand. I scan the dark room, trying to catch sight of him. Then I realize I've passed over him twice, because he's already seated, back to me, in a booth in the rear corner. Directly across from a woman.

"Here is fine, thanks." I take the nearest table, a little two-seater in the middle of the restaurant. Not exactly unobtrusive, but he can't see me. As long as I keep my head down, even if he leaves first, he'll never know I was here.

"Need time to look at the menu?" She sets it in front of me.

I look down at it. "I'll take the caprese salad. And a glass of pinot, please."

She disappears. Seconds later, a glass of wine is at my fingertips. The glass sweats, it's so cold, and I take a tiny sip, watching the back booth. Gabriel's hands are gesturing—tanned skin, creased with whatever hobby exposes them to frequent sun—and across from him sits a petite woman with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Young. Pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her gaze is focused on him very seriously.

It's probably a meeting with a fellow professor. Maybe she's new—that explains the skin young enough to not have met wrinkles yet. Or she could be a family friend. Perhaps even a business meeting of some sort, given the way she's watching him so intently. A lawyer or an accountant or—

He does it again.

He throws his head back, deep laughter coming from his gut, and she smiles, clearly pleased with herself for garnering such a reaction.

I take a long sip of the wine and let its sweet, tart flavor roll over my tongue.

He's so good at pretending.

I wish I was better at it. I've just barely gained back the ability to eat, to do something other than force myself through the motions. I'd love to actually enjoy food again, order an appetizer and dessert rather than a single dish I know I won't even make a dent in. Then again, I don't deserve to enjoy anything after what I did. What I didn't do. I exhale forcefully, then startle when a hand is suddenly right in front of me.

"Oh, my apologies. I thought you saw me." The waitress. Setting down my salad. "Can I get you anything else?"

I shake my head. "No. Thank you."

I ignore the salad, pull out my new notebook, and scribble more notes. Maybe if I search through them later, I'll find a pattern. I'll recognize something, some semblance of a hint that will allow me to see the truth underneath the mask he wears.

Eventually, I pick at the salad. I study the spread of the oil and balsamic, eat a piece of cheese, nibble on a tomato. At least I'm getting my veggies. Kind of. But all the while, I'm listening—catching bits and pieces of their conversation, though not enough to make sense of it. Something about a mutual friend, I think. A problem at her work, which may also be teaching. And then he says, "Storage unit," and my ears perk up. I look over, but the blonde notices me staring their way. So I flash a vague smile and force my gaze to move elsewhere, like I'm just a diner alone admiring the restaurant and fellow diners.

I'm more careful after that, not wanting to meet the eyes of the woman a second time. Then a couple takes a table between mine and theirs. The new couple's talking drowns out any chance I have of more eavesdropping. Except for when I hear the woman's energetic laugh come from the booth in the corner. I chance a quick peek. It's a fraction-of-a-second look, yet I come away with a new revelation.

Maybe she's a girlfriend.

My mind catches on that idea. Maybe he and his wife were about to get divorced. Maybe he really is happy because she's dead—

But no. Even if he had been ecstatic to be rid of her, he also lost his little girl.

His beautiful little Rose.

Even I had to click away when the picture came up on Google. The sweet, innocent face that would never grow old, too much for anyone to bear. Except maybe a monster. Which Gabriel Wright wasn't. I saw the devastation on his face that night. His world had shattered into a million pieces. He's pretending to be happy. He's just mastered the art of camouflaging his feelings. His misery is lurking under the disguise he wears. Soon I'll see it.

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."

"Oh. Okay." Disappointment hits. It would've hurt to see their graves. I got off too easy today.

"Sorry, dear. Good luck finding them. Often seeing someone's final resting place can bring us peace."

I nod my thanks and turn away. Unfortunately, there is no peace for me.