One Small Sacrifice

by Hilary Davidson

  “Part of the time,” Agathe said. “We meet and talk, and he answers our questions. Then we go out and take pictures. In the last hour, we meet again. Sometimes I will see him between those times, sometimes not.”

  “Where did class take place last Friday night?”

  “Old City Hall Station.”

  “You had a class in a subway station?” Sheryn asked.

  “Not just any subway station,” Agathe clarified. “It used to be the jewel of the New York system before they closed it. Too small a platform for the trains.”

  “Hold on. Your class met at the abandoned subway stop under City Hall?”

  Agathe nodded enthusiastically. “It was spectacular.”

  “Alex Traynor made arrangements for you to go there?”

  “Arrangements?” Agathe’s face lit up in an amused smile. “No. That is part of the challenge. Alex says that, to be a good witness, you cannot worry about the rules. If a door tells you to stay out, you go through it. You cannot be a good witness if you only take pictures of the things society wants you to see.”

  Sheryn was incredulous. “I’m sorry, but you seem to have some trouble walking. How could you possibly get to a shut-down station? What did you do, walk along the track? That’s dangerous, not to mention illegal.”

  Agathe surprised her by reaching forward and patting her hand. “I understand you are a police officer,” she said. “And I believe, from the way you think, that you are a mother. You are a natural worrier.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Years ago, I was raped by men who told me they would break every bone in my body when they were done with me,” Agathe said. “They tried. I think they came very close. There are two hundred and six bones in the human body—even more in children. Most of mine were snapped or crushed. And still, I survived. There are pins and wires holding me together.” She smiled again. “But I survived. And I will be a witness as long as I live.”

  “But . . .”

  “There is no sense worrying about me now. Alex is a good teacher. For the record, I did not walk along any subway tracks. There’s more than one way into that station. Alex says he cannot teach anyone how to take a picture; he can only teach us how to think about taking it. For a man of thirty-seven, he is very wise.”

  “All right, you met at the station, and he . . . lectured? For how long?”

  “Close to an hour. It was prolonged to give the stragglers a chance to get there.”

  “How many people are in this workshop?”

  “There are twenty of us. Not typical NYU students. Few of us are that young.”

  “What happened after his talk?” Sheryn asked.

  “We left together. After that, it was up to us to find our own subjects. I had my meeting with Alex at eight.”

  “Meeting?”

  “He meets individually with each student during the workshop,” Agathe said. “He talks with us about our ideas, any issues we are having.”

  “He does this every class?” Sheryn asked. If Traynor lectured, spoke individually with each student, and then spoke with the group again at the end of the night, that would be his time accounted for. He really did have a solid alibi.

  “Always. He is a thoughtful man. He wants to help.”

  “Does he talk about his girlfriend in class?”

  “Emily? Yes, sometimes. She is his fiancée.”

  “What does he say about her?”

  “She comes into his stories because she was in the field with him—that was how they met. He was shot in Syria, and she dug the bullet out of his leg.”

  Sheryn considered herself an expert in Alex Traynor 101, but that piece of intelligence caught her short. “I knew they met overseas but not that she’d operated on him.” She tried to think back to her interviews with them. Emily Teare had been so circumspect. Alex Traynor had been a disaster. “Anything else?”

  “He has talked about her work with Doctors Without Borders. Alex has said too many photographers go looking for glory, when it is their job to document. To be witnesses. Like Catherine Leroy. Do you know her?”

  Sheryn’s ears perked up. “Is she a friend of Mr. Traynor’s?”

  For the first time, Agathe laughed. “No, no. She was one of the all-time great war photographers. She was French, and she went to Vietnam in the 1960s. You would recognize her pictures if you saw them. She said she wanted to give war a human face, and she did. Alex is a great cynic. He says too many photographers want fame. They do not want to be the fly on the wall.” She cocked her head. “May I ask, why do you ask so many questions about Alex? My friend said you needed to know where he was last Friday.”

  “Emily has gone missing,” Sheryn said. “We’re investigating her disappearance.”

  “I am so sorry.” Agathe pressed one hand to her chest. “Alex must be devastated.”

  For a split second, Sheryn thought about setting her straight. But Agathe kept speaking.

  “Perhaps that was why Alex was so upset last Friday,” she said.

  “Wait, he was upset? You didn’t mention that before.”

  “I didn’t think it relevant.” Agathe shrugged. “Alex tried to call Emily before I met with him. He seemed . . . concerned is the best way I can describe it. I remember he said, ‘I don’t think she wants to talk with me.’”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, but it all makes sense now,” Agathe said. “Because Alex was definitely not himself last Friday night.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was distracted,” she answered. “He kept pulling this sheaf of papers out of his pocket and looking through them. It was unlike him.”

  “Papers. Like a folded-up note?” Sheryn’s mind immediately went to Emily’s unsigned goodbye letter.

  “No, no. Like a stack this thick.” Agathe held up her fingers to indicate a half inch. “Small pages.”

  “Did you see what was on them?”

  “There was some printed text and some handwriting on the top page. That was all I saw,” Agathe said. “I have no idea what was on the rest.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ALEX

  Sorry, I can’t meet tonight, Will texted. Maybe tomorrow? I’ll take you out for drinks.

  Alex didn’t bother to respond. He was already on Will’s block. He’d been ready to slip through the foyer—Will’s building was more upscale than his, though it didn’t have a doorman either—but there was Will, hurrying out the door and onto the street, typing frantically on his phone. Alex stood still, and his friend almost crashed into him.

  “What a coincidence,” Alex said. “Just the man I was looking for.”

  “Alex? Is that you?” Will peered closely at him, as if he suspected Alex of being a ghost.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I may have taken one too many Vicodin,” Will said. “Also, I may have mixed it with alcohol. At the moment, I am a walking, talking chemistry experiment.” He was unshaven, and his dark wavy hair stood on end. He was wearing a suit—Will only ever wore suits—but it looked as if he’d slept in it, worked out in it, and, possibly, showered in it.

  “Were you heading out?” Alex said. “Because you probably shouldn’t right now. Also, I really need to talk to you.”

  “I always have time for my friends.” Will lurched a little to the right, as if he were attempting a mambo side-step. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  Alex followed him inside and into the elevator.

  “You never called me back on the weekend.” Will spoke softly, but there was a sharp edge under his words. “Did something happen?”

  “Kind of,” Alex said. “It’s been hectic.”

  Will’s small apartment was on the fourth floor. The lighting was dim, but Alex could make out the oversized leather sofa facing a massive television mounted to the wall. There was an assortment of bottles on the coffee table—some lay flat, like drunks who’d passed out—and a tower of unopened mail tilting against a leather club chair. It smelled to Alex as if his fri
end had started a collection of used sweat socks.

  “When’s the last time you opened a window?” Alex asked.

  “This from the man who used to kick pizza boxes under his bed.” Will sniffed. “Did you come up here to critique my housekeeping?”

  “No. I’m here because of Emily.” The air changed as he said the words, as if storm clouds had gathered and turned the pressure up. “The police came to my apartment today.”

  “The police?” Will’s eyes searched Alex’s face. “Did I blank out for a minute? I feel like I missed something. What do the police have to do with Emily?”

  “A friend of Emily’s reported her missing this morning,” Alex said. “I don’t think anyone’s seen her since Friday.”

  Will squinted at him. “I think you’re burying the lede. Are you saying you haven’t seen Emily since Friday?”

  Alex nodded. “That’s right.”

  “What happened between the two of you?”

  “She left,” Alex muttered.

  “Left? Left for where?”

  “I’m not sure,” Alex admitted. “Her note didn’t say.”

  “Emily dumped you?” Will blinked. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “She hasn’t dumped me.” Alex’s voice was louder than he meant for it to be. “She just needed some time for herself.”

  “Ah, it’s not you—it’s me. She just needs to find herself.” Will sighed. “Speaking as a man who was unceremoniously dumped by his own wife immediately after being publicly humiliated in court, let me say that I’ve been there, Alex. I know it hurts like hell.”

  The way Will spoke was distant and emotionless, as if the wreckage of his personal life were a faraway country he’d once visited on a now-expired passport. Alex knew better: three years ago, Will had been printing money at a hedge fund, living in an apartment on the edge of Central Park, and married to a model named Hadley Everheart. When his life exploded, it was with supernova intensity. Job, home, and wife vanished in short order, but the thing that most shocked Alex was that when he’d half jokingly suggested that Will move into an empty apartment in his building to get his life together, Will had actually done it.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Alex said. “Emily wouldn’t do that.” He didn’t add that Will’s ex had been the kind of woman who insisted on wearing a diamond tiara to brunch the day before her wedding. Emily was nothing like that.

  “You sad, innocent fool,” Will said. “If it could happen to me, it could happen to you. Hadley wanted the good life, and when I couldn’t give her exactly what she wanted anymore, she ditched me. I didn’t want to believe it either. But time is harsh that way. It rushes on while your head is still spinning. Whether or not you accept it, it’s what happened.”

  Alex gritted his teeth. He’d known Will all his life, ever since their mothers put them in the same Bronx sandbox to play together. They hadn’t always liked each other, but the fact that their mothers were close friends had kept them in each other’s lives. And then, when Alex’s mother had passed away, it was Will’s mother who’d taken him in while he finished his last year of high school. He and Will hadn’t become best friends that year, but Alex felt like he’d gained something akin to a brother. That didn’t mean Will couldn’t drive him nuts: back when Will was flush with cash, he’d been an insufferable show-off; since he’d lost the things he cared about, Will had discovered an inexhaustible well of self-pity. Alex had known Will’s wife was a gold digger the first time he’d met her; nothing that happened between them had been a surprise—though, to be fair to Hadley, Will’s epic drug binges would’ve pushed most women away. But Alex also knew that Will never betrayed a confidence. He could tell him anything and be sure that his words wouldn’t boomerang back at him.

  “I need to ask you for a favor,” Alex said. “Because the police are back at my door. Detective Sterling is looking for any reason to lock me up.”

  “Sterling? That shark who went all Inspector Javert on you last year?”

  “That’s her. She’s back, so I can’t keep this around.” He held out the plastic shopping bag.

  “What have we here?” Will asked, taking it into his hands. He started to pull it open as if it were a Christmas present but stopped suddenly. “There aren’t any needles in here, are there?”

  “No. I’m not using heroin again, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You know I’m not one to judge,” Will said.

  That was true, Alex thought. It was Will’s other virtue.

  “And what might this be?” Will asked, grabbing a tissue and doubling it over to lift out a bottle made of opaque mud-colored glass. Even stoned on Vicodin, he was sharp enough not to leave a fingerprint on it.

  “LSD. I’ve been microdosing,” Alex said.

  “Would you believe that I’ve never tried LSD? What’s it like?”

  “This tincture won’t make you trip,” Alex explained. “I take a couple of drops every day. It doesn’t fix anything, but with it, my head is clearer. I feel less depressed. Not undepressed, exactly. It’s not playing with my mind. It makes me feel human again.”

  “You’re not much of a salesman,” Will commented. “You just made LSD sound as boring as a due diligence questionnaire.” He gazed at the bottle. “Do you need to come over each day to take it? Because I’m at my mother’s place most of the time now. I’m still clearing it out. Mother was such a pack rat.”

  “No, I’ll just do without.” The mention of the house brought a lump to Alex’s throat. Mrs. Sipher had passed away in January, and he missed her deeply. Will, as her only child, had inherited the massive house in Riverdale; he’d talked about selling it, but Alex sensed that his friend was having trouble parting with it.

  “Does Emily know you take LSD?”

  Alex shook his head. “We’ve never talked about it.”

  Will gingerly set it back into the bag. “Your secret is safe with me. I’ll keep it here as long as you need. But tell me more about Emily. I still don’t understand why the police showed up at your door. That doesn’t strike me as normal.”

  “Sterling claimed they came over to check on Emily. Then they just happened to find blood on the carpet while they were in the apartment. I don’t know how it got there. It wasn’t there this morning.”

  “Alex, either you are paranoid and high,” Will said, “or else someone is setting you up. Have you had any strange visitors lately?”

  “A woman came by last night. Diana. Claimed she was a friend of Emily’s. She had a key to the apartment.”

  Will shook his head sadly. “You know what I don’t miss about your building? How dangerous it was to live there. Anyone can get in. The owners won’t invest a penny because they want it off their hands, but no one wants to buy it because they sold the air rights.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Alex said, knowing full well it was.

  “Maybe the police put the blood on the carpet,” Will said. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t put past them.”

  Alex considered that. He had no doubt Sterling would bust his ass for jaywalking if she could. But it was still hard to imagine her carrying evidence to plant on him. He might not like her, but the way she tried to squeeze the truth out of him made him believe she genuinely cared about it. “I went over to the precinct to answer their questions,” he admitted.

  Will slammed his fist into his own leg. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex? You don’t talk to the cops. You don’t answer their questions. Not ever. That’s like playing Russian roulette.”

  “CJ was with me.”

  “CJ fucking Leeward?” Will’s eyes bored into Alex’s. “Please tell me that was a joke. I don’t trust lawyers, and that goes double for frauds who use fake names.”

  “He combined his surname with his husband’s when they got married. That’s not fake.”

  “It’s as made up as his diploma,” Will insisted. “Because even an incompetent shyster would keep you away from the police. He should know better. He would
let you walk into the lion’s den with a fig leaf to cover yourself.”

  “He didn’t like it either,” Alex muttered. “But I wanted them to know I have nothing to hide.”

  “I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” Will said. “Did you learn nothing from what happened last year? Because the police were ready to lock you up for Cori’s murder. The justice system screwed me over, and it is going to screw you over too. You don’t need to be guilty. All you have to do is stand still long enough to let the authorities paint a target on you.”

  “You just called Cori’s death a murder,” Alex said slowly. “Is that what you think, that I killed her?”

  Will looked startled. “Of course not. Alex, you know me better than that. I was just thinking of it from the cops’ point of view. They tried to charge you with murder. If it hadn’t been for Emily, you would’ve gone to jail.”

  “Maybe they were right,” Alex said softly. “Maybe I should’ve gone to jail.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s not like I remember what happened,” Alex said.

  “None of it has ever come back to you?” Will’s voice was gentle.

  “Not one sliver of it.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” Will said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because otherwise you would be tortured by the memory,” Will answered. “You would replay it in your mind and wonder what you could’ve done differently to save her. But Cori didn’t want to be saved.”

  Alex understood what Will meant, but the sentiment felt backward to him. He was haunted by Cori’s memory precisely because he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t that he didn’t have glimmers of recollection: he knew Cori had come over and they’d gotten high and they’d had a fight; but there were long blank stretches, like static on an old record.