And now I have a place to research, and boy, do I need a place to research.
I walk to Best Buy, a different branch this time, a branch in Midtown, and buy a pretty nice Android tablet. Then I go to a store in the Garment District and buy a hundred and eighty dollars’ worth of Google Play gift vouchers. Yeah, I’m running down my cash supplies, but I don’t see any alternative. And besides, I have plans to remedy the situation.
Jimmy’s fine. I check in with him and buy a smoothie and a bottle of water.
‘Where you living at, Molly? You someplace safe, yeah?’
‘Upper East Side,’ I lie.
He whistles through his lips and says, ‘You a one percenter now, lady. You walking in Mink Alley now.’ And then he whistles again.
‘Hardly. Staying on the sofa of a friend’s place, that’s all.’
‘You see him, the Turk over there, fingerless gloves?’ He points to the food cart opposite.
‘Yes?’
‘Cleans his grill with the same dirty rag six days in a row. I’m keeping count. Saw him drop a pretzel one time and look round, wipe it on the rag, put it right back on the stack. He’s a dirty little man, that guy, don’t eat from his cart, Molly.’
‘OK, thanks.’
Another customer approaches so I walk away back up to the park.
My phone rings. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Scott.’
There’s traffic all around, someone’s broken down outside Radio City Music Hall, and everyone’s beeping their horns.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. I got practice.’
‘Rowing practice?’
‘Racing next week down at Princeton. They’re strong.’
‘I’m leaving New York soon, Scott.’
‘Thought you’d left already. Vi was sad you went back.’
Vi? I loathe the way he shortens her name.
‘Few more days. Hope this doesn’t sound odd but there aren’t many people I can talk to about KT. Memories, you know. My counsellor said it’s an important part of the grieving process.’ I don’t have a counsellor. I’ve never had a counsellor. ‘To keep her spirit alive. Wondered if we could go and get some pizza together some time. Or maybe a diner, whatever. My treat.’
‘You like Vietnamese food?’ he says casually.
I pause. ‘I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I’ll love it,’ I say.
‘Pho?’
‘Sure.’
‘Tonight at eight? You know where Chelsea Market is?’
‘Sure.’ The lies keep on coming.
‘See you outside at eight, then. Will be nice to talk about Katie some more. I miss her.’
‘See you there.’
I end the call and my stomach is doing flips. It’s not because I’m attracted to Scott, although I am. It’s because we’re almost repeating history. Almost. Some of the joy and anticipation that KT would have experienced before her first dates with Scott Sbarra. Some of the same glances and probably some of the same jokes. Sure, it’s not a date exactly, but it kind of is, you know?
I find a cheap café and I stream some movie soundtracks through my phone headphones: Fargo and Pretty in Pink and Gladiator. Setting up the tablet is easy; it’s identical to the ones I bought in London this past year. Using the Google Play tokens and a brand new Gmail account under a fake name I manage to buy some video editing software and an app that vocalises, in a computerised voice, anything I type, and I set up a brand new YouTube account. I research and screenshot old hidden Reddit posts deleted by Shawn Bagby. I read about metadata and algorithms and YouTuber strategies. I access the dark web and screenshot posts he made under an alias and then I screenshot the evidence I have that he used that alias. Similarities in cadence, the way he writes sentences. One word he regularly misspells. The way he describes proms as loser fests and women as disposable femoids. Then I edit some of the screenshots: cutting and pasting. Some of the evidence is true, some fabricated, some exaggerated. The lies are best hidden among the truths. You need more truths than lies, though, that’s vital. You construct a pattern, a series, a myth. I have enough raw material now. Which means I can work on it offline, no wifi, untraceable, in the comfort of my thirty-five-dollar YMCA single room with a view.
There are several people milling around Cherry Hill Fountain when I arrive. Joggers stretching and dog-walkers dragging their pooches.
But no sign of him.
I walk closer to the fountain, scanning around, my view cut in half by the brim of my baseball cap.