Chapter 22
JANE
PLAYLIST: MOONLIGHT SONATA REMIX – ALLEN GREY
Iobserve the agents entering the lab, and I know something is off right away. Their expressions are cold and detached. I stand behind Amelie and automatically take her hand. She squeezes it.
“Miss Degard?” asks one of the agents.
“Yes,” Amelie whispers.
“FBI,” he says. “Agents Cho and Houston. You have been living with Elise Whitney-Morgan?”
“Yes,” she breathes out, and stammers. “She’s—what happened?”
“Please, sit down, Miss,” says the agent.
“What happened?” screams Amelie, and her fingernails dig into my hand.
“Elise Whitney-Morgan was found dead in a house in Hawaii. We are sorry for your loss. We’d like to question you regarding—“ The agent stops, and I feel it in her grip.
“No,” she whispers as she lets go of my hand.
Stumbles to the side.
Her chest heaves up and down.
She leans onto the desk.
Sinks to her knees.
Crouches up, and a devastating scream resounds through the office.
It hits me somewhere so deep in my chest that tears flood my eyes.
I don’t know what to do.
I am not made for crisis.
She’s dead.
El is dead.
And—
Panic sweeps through my chest.
This can’t be about me.
But my body can’t cope.
I retract.
I need to be there for her.
Instead, I stand here backed against a wall.
I watch what is playing in front of my eyes, the agents talking to Amelie, putting a hand on her back, helping her up, and placing her on a chair.
My breathing is so flat, I gasp for air.
One of the agents kneels in front of her.
She looks up.
He says something I cannot hear.
Amelie stares at him.
I see it happen.
Her eyes become empty.
Hollow.
Emotionless.
Like a switch turned.
Her shoulders fall back.
She straightens.
“No,” she says. “She left me a note that she had to do something. I tried to find her. She took my credit card. I told her to take it if she wanted to leave. I figured that’s what she did.”
Her voice is so robotic, it doesn’t even sound human.
While I watch them, my breathing calms.
“We’d need to see where she lived,” says the agent.
“Sure,” says Amelie and gets up.
I can’t let her go, not in that state.
I run after her.
“I’m coming with you,” I say, and grasp her arm. She removes herself from the touch.
I take a step back.
The way she looks at me—
It scares me.
“You stay here,” she says in a harsh tone.
I feel like falling.
The way she changed—
The other agent turns towards me.
“You are?” he asks.
“Jane McKenzie, Professor for Behavioral Neuroscience,” I say.
“Did you know Miss Whitney-Morgan personally?” he asks.
“I—“ I begin as I realize that everything is about to fall apart. Everything. All the pretend. All the lies. They die right here, because I cannot lie to an agent.
“Yes,” I say. “I met her at her birthday party last week. Amelie is my research assistant, that’s how it came to be—”
I stop myself right there.
“Did you have a more personal relationship with Miss Whitney-Morgan or Miss Degard? You seem rather familiar with each other.”
“I—um—I’d rather keep my personal life out of the discussion.”
“So you say you had a personal relationship with them, you are a Professor here, are you not?”
That is the moment I remember who I am.
“Are you implying I would violate the rules, Sir?” I ask him. “Because if so, I would have to assume you are questioning me as a suspect, and not as a witness. If that is the case, I’d really like to know the foundation for your assumptions.”
“As of now, there are no suspects because the death seems to be self-induced, yet we have to follow all leads.”
Self-induced.
My eyes wander to Amelie, standing some feet away from us in the corridor.
She stares at me.
Her eyes flicker.
She knows something.
The thing she couldn’t tell me.
And it’s eating her alive.
Her look is murderous.
She turns and walks away, with both agents framing her.
I just stand there and watch.
I watch.
And watch.
Until they are long gone.
I get back to the office and stare endlessly into nothingness.
I should do something.
I have to do something.
She needs someone.
I have to take care of her.
So I get up and leave, making my way to her apartment.
I sit in the rattling subway, unable to grasp my thoughts. No one I know ever died.
Or rather, killed themselves.
El was so funny. Joked, smiled, laughed. And now, she is dead.
I get out of the station and walk the four minutes to her apartment.
There is a black GMC full-size SUV parked in front of the door.
So the agents are still here.
I decide to wait. I wouldn’t get in there anyway. I lean against the wall and wait.
I watch people passing by.
“Did you hear?” says a passing woman to another. “Elise died.”
“No way,” says the other.
Everyone is so shocked. And I, who knew her, who got licked by her, I am not. I don’t feel anything.
The only thing I feel is Amelie’s pain. Her scream still lingers with me.
I roll my shoulders back to ease the sensation it causes in me.
I wait and wait.
But no one is getting out of the building.
So, I get home.
I follow my routine at home.
But I can’t sleep.
I am sending her messages.
Call her the next day.
Check her apartment.
But no response.
She is not in the lecture, of course not.
There is a memorial set for El on the campus.
I feel sick walking past it.
News hit that Richard Whitney-Morgan has been arrested for securities fraud, RICO violations, first-degree rape, sexual assault, and coercion.
And I finally understand what has happened.
I am back at her apartment. Why the fuck is there no doorbell?
I function like a robot until Wednesday afternoon, and my chance arises.
A man in overalls and a toolbox walks past me, goes to the door of the building Amelie lives in, and enters.
My chance.
I slip through the door behind him and into the stairwell. I get up and knock on her door.
Nothing happens.
“Amelie, it’s me,” I say. “Open up, please.”
But she doesn’t react.
I bang at the door.
“Open up, please!”
But she doens’t.
“I’m just gonna wait here,” I say, and sit down leaning against the wall.
I wait.
And wait.
Knock again.
And at some point, loud music blasts through the door.
The day becomes a night, and I sit in the darkness with no light falling into the staircase from the skylight anymore.
There are some noises here and there, and it creeps me out slightly.
But I will not let her be alone. First and foremost, because I am scared she’ll do something reckless.
I get up and knock again.
“Open the door, please.”
No reaction.
So I sit back down.
At some point, exhaustion overcomes me, and I rest my head on my drawn-up legs.
When I wake, I sit there in total silence.
I glance at my watch. It's 4:30 in the morning. I get up and put my ear to the door.
I hear her in the apartment.
There is walking, doors open and close. Some scratching.
“Amelie, open the damn door, or I’ll break it,” I shout.
Everything goes silent.
And then she opens the door.
Light falls onto me, and I squint my eyes until I get used to it, but what I see is not good.
Her pupils are dilated, and a scent of alcohol washes towards me.
“Go away,” she says, her tone dark and dangerous.
“I won’t leave you alone,” I say.
“I told you to leave,” she says, and builds herself up, the door opening fully.
It’s when I see the gun in her hand. My first instinct is to flee, but then she might be more of a risk to herself than me.
“Amelie,” I say. “Please, let us talk. I want to be there for you.”
“Talk,” she says, laughing manically. “Talk about what? Talk about the fact that you are here, and she is not? Talk about my feelings? My mess? My fucked up?”
“You’re angry,” I say, “That’s good. Anger is good.”
“Angry! I am not angry.” A displaced chuckle follows.
“Why don’t you give me the gun, and we sit down—“
“I don’t want you here!” she screams. “I don’t want to see your face!”
I take a step back because she is gesturing aggressively with the gun in her hand.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say. “I love you. And I am not leaving you.”
She closes the distance between us, grabs my face with both her hands, and pushes me backward into the wall.
“I don’t want you here,” she says in a threatening whisper, her face so close our noses touch. “I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to love you. All I do is hate you. I hate you, because you are here and she is not. Leave now, or I am going to destroy you.”
She said I don’t want to love you.
“You are angry because you feel too much. I can help you through that.”
She scoffs, takes a step back, and something in her switches. She stands there, glaring at me, shaking her head.
“I told you to leave,” she says.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
Her chest heaves up and down; she is fighting with herself.
I remove myself from the wall.
Walk to her.
Put my hand on her chest.
“You are not alone,” I say. But it was the wrong thing to say.
“Leave, now!” she shouts in a shaking voice full of disgust and anger.
“No,” I say. “Destroy me, do whatever you want, but I am not leaving.”
Her hands tremble as she grasps my face.
“I will hurt you,” she whispers as she stares me in the eyes.
“I don’t care,” I say.
I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I provoke her. Well…actually, I do know. Because I will not give up on the woman who made me feel like I am the only real thing in the world.
I am also not a quitter.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she whispers, her head resting on my forehead.
“Then don’t,” I say.
“You have to leave,” she says with a pain in her voice that makes me shudder.
“No,” I say. “I won’t leave you alone.”
She grasps my head and pushes me forcefully into the studio.
I stumble and fall onto all fours. Before I can get up, she grasps my hair and pulls me to the bedroom by it.
I scream from the pain. My scalp feels like it’s being ripped off, and yet, there is something about it that turns me on. It’s the force. Being handled. Not having a choice.
How deranged is that? I ask myself as I realize what is happening to me.
“I told you to leave,” she says, dangerously low. “You wanted to stay; whatever happens is your own fault.”
She opens a drawer and gets out ropes.