‘Uh, hello,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’ I feel suddenly deeply embarrassed, turning up on Leah’s doorstep when she is probably just cooped up with a new boyfriend, the father of her child. But… Friday. She was hurt. Someone hurt her. There is a long pause.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Kristina Moss. I’m…’

There is a long pause, and when the man speaks again, his voice is cool.

‘I know who you are.’ The buzzer sounds and I glance down the street as though someone might appear who could tell me what to do, but there is nobody around, so I push open the door and step inside.

13

Leah, two weeks before

I’m not supposed to be here, he says.

No, says Leah. And yet. Here you are.

I can’t stay away from you.

Good.

What is this going to cost us? He whispers, tracing light shapes with his fingertips down her bare chest, across her stomach, its swelling barely noticeable, then further down, and draws her even closer, pressing her face into his broad, warm chest. She looks up, makes him meet her eyes.

It’s okay, her eyes say.

I miss this so much, he says.

I’ve missed this my whole life, she thinks. She’s tired, but doesn’t want to sleep, she wants to be held, to lie here all night just being held, feeling him fill the apartment, the spaces inside her, the night itself. She hadn’t seen this coming, this deep and easy feeling of coming home.

14

Kristina

I step into a vast foyer lit by a huge industrial-style wrought-iron lamp. I hear a door unlock higher up in the building and take the stairs slowly, trying to make sense of my racing thoughts. Am I about to come face to face with Leah? Who is the man, and why did he instantly recognize my name? I assume she has met someone fairly recently, and for some reason, didn’t want to discuss the relationship with me. But wouldn’t Leah have told me? She tells me everything. Or so I thought.

It seems surreal that I am here, climbing the stairs to Leah’s apartment. Her apartment is all the way at the top, and the door has been left ajar. To the side of the door is a small bronze doorbell reading ‘Iverson’, and I imagine her choosing it in a little shop, writing her name down on a scrap of paper, to be engraved.

‘Hello?’ I say, stepping into a narrow hallway. A man emerges from a room to the right. He looks young, almost like a high school student, and is dressed in navy sweatpants and a hooded sweater with a giant red Ralph Lauren Polo logo. He’s a good-looking guy, with dark-blonde hair and light-blue, striking eyes. He looks tired and his clothes are crumpled, as though he was sleeping on a sofa and has just woken up.