‘I think it helped just a little,’ I say to Mum. ‘To make sense of things. Seeing her life here.’
Mum gives me a hug and her earring catches on mine. ‘Sorry,’ she says pulling away. ‘It’s never been easy for you to let your emotions out – you have your father to blame for that. Katie had the opposite problem. My fault, I suppose.’ Mum starts crying and laughing at the same time. Dad gestures that he has a cab waiting.
‘The detective kept asking questions about jealous boys and money problems,’ says Mum. ‘Did Katie mention Scott’s jealousy to you?’
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t even get to ask many questions. The detective did all the asking. He said she had some bruising to her face.’
Mum holds my hand. ‘We saw that,’ she says. ‘It was very faint, sweetie.’
I watch the fringe of Central Park fly by. We pass by the Lincoln Center: hundreds of carefree tourists taking selfies in front of the fountains.
The scent of her stays with me. That shawl. And in this taxi, squashed into one side of the back seat, I vow to avenge all that has happened. Everything is out of kilter. Skewed. I need to seek out those who are responsible for the pain in her life and help put the world back into balance. She’d have done the same. This cannot go unpunished.
We reach our hotel and there’s vomit outside my parents’ door. A man is cleaning it up best he can with a mop and bucket but it’s already soaked into the carpet tiles. He apologises and Mum says, ‘It’s not your fault, dear.’
They want to take a nap. I explain how I’ll go out for a while. Explore the city. Get some air and stick to the safe, touristy areas. Mum looks so much older all of a sudden. Twenty years older. I’m lucky to have her. Always selfless and reliable. The family rock.
I check Scott Sbarra on my phone. He’s not a difficult person to find on the internet. Not like me. From his LinkedIn page I can glean where he interned last summer. On Facebook I find a string of ex-girlfriends or ex-flings; most of them look something like KT – something like me. He’s done charitable work in Kenya, building some kind of school, and he’s made damn sure we all know about it. He lifts weights. Scott Sbarra takes good care of himself and he rows for the Columbia heavyweight squad. I’m a competent researcher. I get results. I check the rowing team website. Location of the training grounds. Their boathouse. I check their schedule and their coach’s details. He should be finishing a session soon. I look up bus routes and timetables because I refuse to take a subway.
The hostel is quiet when I sneak out.
A substantial part of me wants to return to the relative safety of my room. To quit. But a larger part needs answers. Needs to dig deeper. To interrogate this man.
The Midtown lunch rush has ended but not much changes. It seems to always be a rush out here. People walk even faster than they do in central London. Phones fixed to ears, small backpacks: urban confidence.
Unfortunately the bus I’ve researched leaves from Times Square.
I find the right place with help from my friendly local street vendor. He tries to sell me a smoothie but I politely turn down his offer and promise I’ll buy one later on.
The bus is OK. I have my monkey fist and my knitting needles and my sock stuffed with pound coins. I feel like I can handle this journey if it means I get to judge KT’s boyfriend, to look into his eyes.
I step off the bus at West 218th Street. This is not Midtown, not even close. This isn’t even Harlem any more; this is the northernmost tip of Manhattan island. North of Fort George and Washington Heights. This is Inwood. The streets are dangerous in a different way up here. Not so many pedestrians, lower terrorism risk, but also fewer recognisable chain stores that offer some kind of sanctuary, real or imagined.
I follow signs to the Columbia boathouse. One new structure built next to an old building, a concrete slipway leading down into the Harlem River, the tangled trees and burnt foliage of Inwood Hill Park in the background, and the Henry Hudson Bridge beyond that.
I can’t see anyone in the water.
Eventually a tall guy my age walks out of the new boathouse in track pants and a T-shirt.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, smiling, exaggerating my English accent. ‘Is Scott Sbarra here today?’
‘Don’t I know you?’ he says, narrowing his eyes, his lip curling on one side. ‘Julia’s party, right? Katy, is it? No. Kirsty? Sorry. How you doing?’
How does he not know about KT? I’d imagined everyone on campus would have been talking about her. Especially Scott and his teammates.