He smiles a flat, empty smile, and goes back to his room.
I’m starving, so I devour the croissant and the coffee and then I take a hot shower. The communal bathroom is already wet, steamy, soaked, but at least I don’t have to queue. I fix my make-up in my room with a small mirror and then I check the contents of my handbag. We leave the hostel.
‘Your father likes to take the subway, makes him feel like a New Yorker instead of a tourist, but we’ll get a cab today, Molly. You don’t want to try the subway, do you?’
‘No, Mum. I don’t.’
‘We’ll just hail a cab, then.’
Dad heads off across Sixth Avenue towards the overwhelming giant neon screens advertising Broadway shows and sneaker brands. Mum and I wait outside the hostel.
‘Did you get some sleep, Mum?’
‘A little. On and off, really. You?’
‘Took me a while but then I did.’
‘Good. You need it,’ she says, taking a deep breath, then coughing. ‘We all need to keep our strength up so we can help the police. Get justice for your sister.’
‘The hostel walls are paper-thin, though,’ I say.
‘They really are.’
‘I heard you and Dad talking late last night.’
She looks at me.
‘What do you need to tell me, Mum? What’s the truth you need to share with me?’
She looks down at the pavement and then fixes her hair and looks back up at me with a pained expression. ‘It’s not the right time, sweetie.’ She rubs my shoulder reassuringly. ‘Your father can talk to you about it.’
Dad yells from across the street and we join him and jump in the yellow cab.
‘26th Police Precinct,’ says Dad to the driver. We’re all squeezed into the back seat.
‘Where?’ says the driver.
‘Near Columbia University. Morningside Heights.’
‘Wrong way,’ says the driver, pulling out into traffic. We drive south and then he makes a turn and we start heading north. ‘Street?’ asks the driver. He’s an Eastern European guy with thin fair hair.
Dad checks his phone and says, ‘Amsterdam and 126th Street.’
The driver nods.
‘Dad, what do you need to tell me?’
He looks over at me, then at Mum. He’s wearing a tie today; he almost never wears a tie. He gestures to Mum and she nods.
‘Not now, Molly. We can talk about it later after we’ve spoken to the police. We need to focus.’
He turns to look out of the window and Mum stares straight ahead. We’re cramped together and awkward as hell. This is where KT would have told us one of her travelling stories or cracked a lame joke to cut the tension. I know everyone found me hard work as a kid. It took extra effort to ensure nothing upset me too much. Whereas KT was easy. If someone wronged her she’d address the problem swiftly and move on. Right now, in the back of a cab, this is where she would have saved us from ourselves.
According to my phone GPS we pass close to the Ed Sullivan Theater and Carnegie Hall, and head on up the west side of Central Park. I Google ‘Katie Raven’ again, and check Twitter for news or hashtags. She’s everywhere. The Mail Online have a collage of her Instagram selfies, and they have some soundbite from Violet, her best friend. Strong New York accent. Mum watches the clip with me. Violet says how stunned she is. How KT was a brilliant scholar and their whole class are devastated by the news.
‘You should look up from your phone once in a while and see the park, it’s picturesque this time of year,’ says Dad. ‘Look at those leaves.’
Mum taps my knee in a way that says, Forgive your father, he isn’t thinking.
The buildings become more stunted and normal-looking. Fewer skyscrapers. No giant neon signs or heaving tribes of tourists.
‘Whatever the police ask you, just answer clearly and honestly to the best of your recollection,’ says Dad.
‘What else would I do?’ I say.
‘He didn’t mean it like that,’ says Mum. ‘The police here talk differently from the ones back home. They’re more direct. Just take your time with them, that’s all. Think about your answers.’
‘NYPD,’ says Dad. ‘They’ll find out who hurt our Katie. Detective Martinez has been very helpful so far, and very kind to your mother. I have full confidence in the NYPD.’
I scan the faces on the street. ‘Whoever did this could be walking past us right now.’
‘Or he could be in Mexico already,’ says Dad. ‘But I hope to God he’s still here. He needs to be brought to justice. He needs a—’