Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 3

  “Really?”

  “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She puts a hand on top of her chest, just below her throat. “Oh, thank god. I was really hoping you’d say that but I was a little bit nervous. Especially since you were one of the people who interviewed me when I first started.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You’d think the more senior person would get it first—I would have thought anyway, so I’m glad you’re being so good about it.”

  There’s a lone paperclip on my desk, and I see myself in my mind’s eye straightening it out and shoving it in her cheek just to shut her up. “Don’t be silly! It’s fabulous! I couldn’t be happier. Well deserved. Congratulations.” I get up, because I’m starting to shake and I’m afraid she’ll see it, which would only add to my humiliation.

  She gets to her feet. “Thank you for being so good about it,” she says again.

  I can’t get to the women’s toilets fast enough. I lock myself in a cubicle, close the seat and sit down. I’m breathing too fast, too loud. I drop my head in my hands and time my breaths, wait for my pulse to slow down. I press my fingers against my eyes. Of course I didn’t get it. I haven’t published anything in years. I just teach, work, sit on useless committees and take minutes. That’s not a track to full professor. That’s a track to full-blown idiot-moron-gofer-errand girl. And what was it she said? A last-minute thing. Geoff suggested it. Why would he do that when he’d already suggested to me that I apply, and there was only one position available?

  Except he didn’t suggest it, did he. But he sure didn’t stop me when I brought it up. Quite the opposite, I would have thought, considering all the extra work I’ve been doing these last few months which will make a good impression on the committee, Anna. They love a team player.

  At the sink I splash water on my face and dab at my eyes. I recover myself enough to go back to my office, only for Geoff to stick his head round the door a moment later.

  “Ah. Anna, can I have a word?”

  “Is this about Mila? Because I think it’s great, really great. Wonderful news.”

  “Yes, good, so you know.”

  “Yes, couldn’t be happier for her.”

  “Okay. Good. Oh, by the way, did you type those minutes?”

  “In your inbox.”

  “Well done, good stuff.”

  I want to go home and curl up in my bed, go to sleep for a year or two, but I can’t because I have a class. Maybe I could say I’m sick, ask June to get a replacement teacher for the afternoon. One of the post docs.

  No. Mila will know it’s because of her, and then she’ll think I’m upset and she’ll be making cooey noises at me: Oh! You are upset, Anna. I’m so, so sorry. I wonder if Mila will offload some of her classes on me now. Of course she will.

  Then I remember I am supposed to go and see Alex. Good. This is what I need to focus on: Alex and the Pentti-Stone conjecture. It sounds like a children’s book title: Alex and the Pentti-Stone Conjecture. I blow my nose, picturing Geoff’s face—and Mila’s—when they find out our paper got published. I imagine Geoff realizing he backed the wrong applicant. Mila’s words echo in my mind: It should have been you.

  Damn right it should.

  I think back to the phone call from Alex. What is he up to? He sounded… upset? Not exactly. Intense? Yes. Definitely. Should I brace myself for more bad news? Has he found an error? Will he say we can’t submit yet? It would be a setback, certainly, but we’d had those before. Maybe this one is much more serious. But I know the work and I know the paper, and I know it’s ready. Unless I’ve missed something, and considering it was only this morning that I was quietly confident I’d find out any day now that I got the professorship, and I didn’t even twig that Mila was in the running, let alone that she’d beat me to it, maybe I shouldn’t trust my own judgment.

  But I need this paper. This is my opportunity to prove them wrong, to laugh in their face, to quit the job and get a better one elsewhere—maybe move the family to Boston so I could teach at MIT.

  I grab my bag and snatch my jacket from the back of my chair. I don’t care what Alex’s problem is right now, I’ll sort it out. I don’t care what it takes, either. I just want to see the look on Mila’s face when our paper gets published. I want to get to tap her on the shoulder and say, I think they did make a mistake after all, Mila.

  Four

  I’ve been to Alex’s apartment a few times before and I park around the corner, turn off the ignition and take a moment. I need to be calm and reassuring. Alex has a tendency to over-react and god knows he can get himself into a state of despair over the smallest thing. He’s twenty-seven years old but sometimes he may as well be twelve. But, he is the genius behind our work and my future depends on how well I can manage him, as I remind myself as I make my way up the stairs.

  His apartment is very nice, certainly not what you’d expect a student to live in. It’s roomy, with a big flat screen on one wall of the living room and beige, glass and chrome furnishing that would look great in an office, or a showroom. He shares it with another student who from memory is studying journalism. But Alex doesn’t need the rent his roommate brings in. His parents are paying, and he joked once he’d only got someone to move in so he’d have someone to talk to.

  I knock and he opens the door immediately, shirtless, his pupils dilated, and it occurs to me suddenly that he could be on something, some kind of amphetamines. By the looks of him he must have been abusing them for a while and I chide myself for not checking in with him sooner.

  “Where’s your roommate?” I ask, taking my jacket off and laying it on the arm of the sofa. “What’s his name again?”

  “Vernon. He’s out. Do you have the notebooks?”

  “Oh, shit! Sorry.”

  “Anna! Did you forget?”

  “Sorry, I did. Lots going on this morning.”

  He breathes out loudly through his nose, but then seems to relax again. “You want a coffee? I’m about to have one.”

  “Sure.”

  He does a double take. “You’ve been crying?”

  “No.”

  “Your eyes are all puffy.”

  “I said no.”

  He shrugs and I follow him to the kitchen and watch him spoon ground coffee into the machine. I’m about to ask what the problem is when he blurts it out.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  I wait for the rest but he’s silent; just keeps making the coffee and won’t meet my eye as he fusses with the cups and the sugar bowl.

  “Okay, about what?” I’m already exhausted as I brace myself for his inevitable self-doubt, for the speech about how he thinks he has it wrong. The submission committee at the Journal of Applied Number Theory won’t accept it if there is any doubt about the validity of the solution. He knows that. And I have friends at MIT who could take a look now if he doesn’t want to wait that long. They’d sign a confidentiality agreement. This kind of thing happens all the time. He knows that, too.

  “Talk to me, Alex. Don’t you want to publish it yet? Is that it?”

  He snaps his head around. “My thesis? Of course I’m publishing it. Are you nuts?”

  “Okay, good to hear. So what are we talking about?”

  He’s smiling as he thinks about it, then his features harden until his mouth is so taut that when he speaks again, he can barely move his lips. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  Jesus. He really looks bad. When did I see him last? Two weeks at least.

  He pulls out a letter from his back pocket and hands it to me. I hesitate, then take the envelope from him between two fingers, trying not to stare at his filthy fingernails. “What’s this?” I’m about to pull out the single sheet of paper from it when he speaks.

  “I’m going to publish it alone. The thesis, of course, but also the research paper.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t want you to co-author it anymore.”

  I almost laugh. “This
is a joke, right?”

  His hand shakes as he handles the coffee, and some of it spills onto the table. My first instinct is to grab a kitchen cloth and clean it up, but I don’t.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about it,” he says. “It’s mine.”

  A wave of outrage flares through me and I grip the envelope tighter in my fist but then tell myself to calm down. I take a breath and let it slip from my fingers. He doesn’t mean it. He’s panicking about something. There’s no need for me to do the same.

  He leans against the window ledge stirring his coffee with a spoon, a breeze from the partly open sash window behind him ruffling his hair.

  “Come on, Alex, I helped you, you know that. You couldn’t have done it without me.”

  He smirks, rudely. “Are you listening to yourself? I did do it without you, Anna. You were there, in the room, and that’s about the extent of your contribution.”

  “You know that’s not true.” I think of all the hours I spent with him, poring over his work, trying to grab hold of the slimmest gossamer thread that we could tug and unspool into the light. I think of all the times he despaired and wanted me to hold him until it passed, the times he would sob on my shoulder like a child while I whispered soothing words to him. He told me once that I was much nicer than his own mother.

  Thinking back on it in this moment, I realize something I didn’t want to confront then, but I may have to now. Alex is unhinged.

  I think of that night when I called him at almost midnight. I woke him up and he was annoyed because it was the first time in weeks that he’d had a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Until I called, that is. But I’d had that sliver of an idea and it was enough for him to get unstuck. It was the final, missing piece of the puzzle. We had the solution.

  I put all this to him now, through clenched teeth. “You don’t remember that? Really, Alex?”

  He smiles from one side of his mouth. The arrogance dripping from his sneer makes me want to slap him.

  “Do you honestly believe you made that much difference? You’re not that good, Anna. It’s you who is trying to ride on my coattails here, not the other way around. And, anyway, I told you. I’ve thought long and hard about it over the last few weeks, and—”

  “Weeks? You’ve been letting me do all this work on the paper for the last few weeks?”

  He shrugs. “So? Give me an invoice.”

  “Alex! What are you saying? You can’t do this!”

  “Get over yourself. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your career, even without your name as co-author. You were my advisor. You’ll get lots of accolades from that. And your precious university will get its reward, just because I was your PhD student.”

  “Don’t do this. You know it’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”

  I laugh. “I’m finding that out.” But then I see his face and I don’t know whether to punch him or beg him. I take a closer look at him. His trembling hands. The spittle in the corners of his mouth. The dilated pupils. His skin so pale it’s almost blue. “Have you been sleeping?” I ask, more gently.

  He snorts. “I can sleep when this is done.”

  I cock my head at him. “What did you take, Alex?” I reach out to touch him and he jerks backwards. “I think I should call someone. We can discuss all that stuff later, but I think you need help. Have you seen your parents recently?”

  “Shut up.” He starts to rub his forehead over and over.

  I move around the table toward him. I just want to hug him. Hold him tight until this passes. “I’m worried about you.”

  “No, you’re not. Stay away from me!”

  “It’s okay.” But his nose has started to bleed. “Honey, please. Look at me. I’m not moving. I’m right here, Alex. What’s wrong? I’m not going to hurt you, you know that.” But he’s backing against the window behind him, his eyes darting around as if searching for escape.

  “I’ve said my piece and I want you to leave! Now!”

  I have to call someone. I have to do it now. He needs an ambulance, but my bag and my phone are in the living room, so I keep talking, holding his gaze as I walk slowly to him. “You can publish alone, I don’t care. I really don’t. Come on, Alex, come and sit down with me.”

  I extend my hand to him again but he just laughs.

  I come closer. So close I can almost touch him.

  He raises his arm over his face. “Leave me alone!”

  For a horrible moment I think he’s afraid of me. Then in one motion he turns, pushes up the sash window and swings one leg out so that he is sitting astride the window sill, looking down. I scream for him to stop but he’s already slipped under the top sash and I am standing with my arms outstretched and a scream garbled in my throat.

  “Alex!”

  But Alex isn’t there anymore.

  Five

  It’s so strange, unreal, like a dream. He didn’t scream, or shout, or make a noise. He just disappeared.

  I want to run to the window, but I can’t move. Black dots swirl in front of my eyes and I put one hand flat on the table to steady myself.

  “Alex?”

  After a moment I take a step, then another, until I’ve reached the window.

  “Alex?” Slowly, I peer down, along the alley that borders the west side of the building. I can’t see him. I’m looking, but I can’t see him and for one beautiful moment I think maybe he’s playing a joke on me, until I see his bare foot. His body is wedged between the brick wall of the building and a dumpster. A piece of metal has pierced his torso and anyone can see that he’s dead. I clasp my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming and drop to the floor, my back against the wall.

  I have to get help. I crawl to the living room, stumble upright and snatch up my bag from where I left it on the couch. It’s a tanned soft leather bag with a single shoulder strap and Luis had once joked that searching for something in it was like shoving your hand inside a giant mushroom. I think about that now, the giant mushroom, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. Am I tripping? Did Alex give me something in that coffee and walk out of the apartment? Is this some kind of prank?

  No. I didn’t touch my coffee. I empty the bag on the floor because that’s the quickest way to locate my phone. I snatch it with shaking hands, then stop.

  Alex is dead. I’m sure of it. Should I ring the university first? Or should I ring his parents? What will I say to them? I should ring the ambulance. That’s it. That’s what I need to do. My finger hovers over the first digit, 9.

  And tell them what, exactly?

  He was going to leave my name off the paper and then he fell out the window.

  I remember the letter he gave me earlier, lying on the kitchen table. I pick it up with shaking fingers. It’s typed on thick, cream-colored stationery.

  Dear Anna,

  Firstly, I want to thank you for being my thesis advisor, and for everything you’ve done to make me feel welcome at Locke Weidman.

  I’ve decided to publish my work alone. That includes the paper based on my thesis. I know that we had discussed you being cited as co-author, but upon further reflection I have come to the conclusion that there’s no reason at all for your name to be included. To be honest, I’m concerned that having you as co-author will lend your contribution more weight than is warranted.

  I trust you’ll understand and respect my position.

  Please forward any written material in your possession.

  Below that he’d added in a handwritten scrawl, like an afterthought:

  Sorry,

  Alex

  I put a hand over my eyes. They’ll think I did it. Of course they will. They’ll read the letter, then they’ll say I pushed him in a fit of rage. They won’t believe me when I explain that he just jumped. He was there, then he wasn’t. Because that’s what happened here, isn’t it?

  Will I go to jail? Yes, of course I’ll go to jail. Our doctoral students die. We kill them. Or I kill t
hem. That’s what they’ll say in the newspaper headlines, the blogs, the social media posts and talk-back radio.

  Killer.

  And for some insane reason I think of my mother and I can almost hear the soft click of her tongue, impatient and disappointed.

  I return to the window, slowly, like a cat, listening the entire time. Every sound seems amplified, like I have bionic hearing. Distant traffic, a dog barking, the clanging of a distant hammer in a construction site. No sirens. Yet.

  Okay. I need to breathe. Focus. I think of my children as I crumple the letter and shove it in my pocket. I wash the cup and wipe it dry with the tea towel before putting it back in its place on the shelf. Not that I’m concerned about prints or DNA but best not to raise questions about who was there this morning with Alex.

  In the living room I’m on my knees as I frantically gather everything I dropped earlier, my heart bouncing around my chest: two tampons, a packet of tissues, a long-lost silver pen, make-up, sunglasses, wallet, keys, loose receipts. An unopened packet of mints. An ID pass on a lanyard for a panel I attended at UCLA last year. A throat soother stuck in its wrapper, the sight of which makes me want to burst into tears. I remembered Mateo doing that, sucking on it and changing his mind, putting it back in its wrapper and dropping it in my bag. I shove it all back into my purse and I’m almost hyperventilating as I dart around the room for anything else of mine. Then finally, softly, quietly, I open the front door.

  I’m about to check the hallway when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I push the door closed again, my heart pounding as I hold my breath, praying that it’s not his roommate. In my head I’m already making excuses as to why I’m here, alone, when the footsteps continue past this floor, up another flight, and I let my breath out. On impulse I grab a light beige beanie from the coat rack and push it down over my ears, then I put my sunglasses on.

  I slip out and almost run down the stairs. I only need a minute, less, thirty seconds, and I’ll be outside. But just as I reach the last flight of stairs, someone comes into the building.