Page 48 of The New Couple in 5B

I had asked the same question myself. But I don’t say anything, just look anyplace in the room but at him.

He goes on. “Was there bad blood? Between you and her? Between her and your husband?”

My instinct is to spill my guts—tell him everything about the apartment, about the photographs, but I still have Chad’s voice ringing in my ears.

“My husband is on his way with our lawyer.” My voice is level and calm, not at all how I feel. “I don’t feel comfortable answering any more questions until they get here.”

The detective lifts his palms, his eyebrows arching. “No need for all that, is there? You’re not in any trouble, Ms. Lowan.”

“That’s good,” I answer, moving toward the door. He backs up a step to subtly block my passage. His voice is low and serious when he speaks again.

“But if there’s something you need to tell me, now would be a good time.”

There’s a bit of a standoff. Finally, I offer him a polite smile. “I am happy to cooperate in the presence of our attorney.”

“Wow,” he says, bobbling his head a bit. “Okay.”

He steps aside and Max ushers me from the office and back to our spot by the door.

“You should go,” I whisper. “You don’t need to be a part of this. Whatever it is.”

“I’malreadypart of this.” Max’s dark eyes search my face. “But—what is happening here, Rosie?”

Dana is dead. Her studio was full of pictures of my husband. He has been calling her obsessively all day while I have been unable to reach him. He has just asked me not to communicate any further with the police until he arrives with our lawyer. The truth is I have no idea what’s going on.

When all of that jams up in my throat and I don’t answer, Max pulls me into his embrace, and I hold on tight.

fifteen

On our wedding night, Ivan gave a speech.

Think about all the things that had to go wrong for just one thing to go right.

He’s talking about the night Chad and I met. It was a week after the subway incident and my night with Max, a misty, early evening. I had tickets to a performance at St. Mark’s Church in the East Village, and usually I would have asked Max, but I didn’t—because things had been weird since our night together. Because it seemed too much like a date and I didn’t want to lead him on. Instead, I invited another friend, a publicity assistant named Hilary, who was bright and effusive and lots of fun.

But as I waited outside for her, I received a text that she’d had a work emergency and couldn’t get away. I thought about bailing but I’d heard good things about the independent play written and directed by one of my NYU professors, so I decided to go in on my own.

But the stairs leading to the church were slick in the mist, and there was a crowd. Just as I was about to reach the door, I was jostled and slipped, spilling the contents of my purse all over the stone stairs, skinning my knee.

Embarrassed, frazzled, I chased after my cheap lipstick, tattered wallet, a smattering of different colored pens, crumpled money, change. Most people walked by, creating a space around me and the shamefully junky contents of my purse. But suddenly, I had a helper, a young guy with a full beard and a wool beanie. He wore a baggy sweatshirt, loose jeans, some beat-up old sneakers.

He moved quickly, helping me get everything while the crowd filtered in through the open doors, finally handing me a shattered compact, the powder just a crumble, the mirror I was dismayed to see was just a spider web of cracks.

“I don’t believe in bad luck, do you?” he asked me with a smile.

I shook my head. Those eyes; they were hypnotic, full of light and kindness, laughter. There was a moment of heat, of electricity.

“I am so late,” he said, looking toward the doors. “Are you okay?”

“I—I—I’m okay,” I stammered, my knee raging, bruised and bleeding. “Thank you so much.”

“I’ll see you again,” he said, but then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

His energy lingered, his words feeling more like prophecy than the tossed-away comment that it likely was.

I was still tingling, knee still stinging, as I went inside, looking around the theater for the bearded man. But among the artsy, intellectual crowd, I didn’t spot him. The usher took me to my aisle seat near the stage, and feeling frazzled, sweaty, I was glad for the empty seat beside me. The small orchestra started to warm up, and finally after what seemed like a bit of delay, the lights went down.

“Tonight the role of Ben will be played by understudy Chad Lowan,” said the announcer. The name meant nothing to me at the time.