All she wanted was to reach the bed, to go back to sleep for days, weeks, months. Her purse was tossed on the floor, close to where her inert body had lain, next to the vomit and blood. Inside was her phone, her lifeline. She wanted to call Gabe. Or her mother. Even the police. She wanted to check her text messages to see if Gabe had reached out. She wanted to apologize to him, to make everything better. She wanted to find out who had done this to her and why. But she couldn’t. Her inflamed and poisoned body craved sleep above all else.

Crawling up on her bed, naked and wet, she slept.

47

The Knock

When she woke, it was still light. Or was it light again? She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—a couple of hours? A day? Longer? Her wet hair had dried into an unintentional beehive, her bloody hands and knees had crusted over. Her throat screamed for water, and her bladder was full to bursting. But the pounding in her head had not receded. If anything, it was louder and more tangible. Because it wasn’t in her head. It was at her door.

The words became audible then, a female voice.

“New York Police Department. Open up, Ms. Murphy.”

Her first instinct was relief: the police knew what had happened to her the other night, were here to get her statement. They would arrest the bastard who had drugged her; they would make him pay for what he had done to her. But how did they know?

“Coming!” she cried, but her parched throat would not cooperate. The pounding continued.

She found her robe in a pile of clothes at the end of her bed and wrapped it around her naked body. Her head was still aching, throbbing in unison with the fist on her door. She had to let them in, had to make the noise stop. Side-stepping the puddle of bodily fluids coagulating in the entryway, she opened the door.

“Natalie Murphy?” It was a woman, in a blazer and pants, sensible shoes. She had dark hair and dark eyes that emanated both strength and weariness. Behind her was a big man, his chubby red face blooming like a rose from a too-tight collar, and a younger man in uniform.

It hurt Nat’s throat to articulate the word. “Yes.”

“We’d like to talk to you about the death of Gabriel Turnmill.”

The words did not compute, Nat’s drug-addled brain could not make sense of them. Because Gabe wasn’t dead. She had just seen him the day before. Or the day before that. Or was it two days ago? They had argued, yes, but he had stormed off, very much alive. And then she had gone drinking and clubbing and then . . . And then what? What had she done?

She stepped back, tried to shut the door in the cops’ faces, but they were faster and stronger. The woman muscled her way inside, the men on her heels. Nat scrambled backward, stepping in the puke and blood, losing her balance, falling to the floor. Her bladder released then, hot urine soaking her robe.