I burst out of the building and clamber down the steps, toward the crowd.
One girl has a hand over her mouth and big, wild eyes. Another student runs his hands up and down his backpack straps as though he’s wearing a parachute and is falling fast. Two girls kneel in the grass and hug. Mostly though, students are staring, whispering. Hushed.
The cop car is off to the side on one of those fake streets. A street for students, not vehicles. Unless they’re emergency vehicles. The lights flash, but the siren has stopped. A cop talks on a cell phone. Another is defending the perimeter. Stay calm. Stay back.
I move toward the forbidden perimeter and the students. I trip. My legs shake.
The police tape acts as a stronger barrier than flimsy plastic should. I get in closer, gently inserting myself.
Someone is on the ground. There’s a foot and a twisted ankle. The heel is nowhere where a heel should naturally be.
The body is contorted, lifeless. I don’t place my hand over my mouth, mimicking the numb crowd, until I see the blood. It’s gooey against the hard pavement. I don’t cry until I see the black hair. His face is turned toward us. Even in death, his eyes blank and empty, we can all see it.
Purple.
It’s Danny.
I clench my jaw. I touch the police tape, my fingers tingling, feeling the glossiness. I want to rip it away, so that Danny isn’t alone. He’s just lying there. No one is touching him. No one is holding him. I rub my arms and stare at his eyes, as though we can communicate. I’m sorry Danny. I’m so, so sorry.
Finally, I back away. Getting out of the crowd is harder than it was to get in. Everyone pushes forward, either trying to see or entranced by what they do see. I look up. He must have come from there. A window on the third floor or the green roof?
It settles in and what used to be murmurs around me become clear.
“Did he jump?”
“A grad student just found him.”
“Maybe he was depressed because of his...condition.”
“He did seem down when I ran into him last night.”
“Maybe someone pushed him?”
I’m surprised by the last statement. Especially the source of it.
Me.
People listen, but the idea is more important than the source, and soon the buzzing has morphed into various scenarios.
“He could have just gotten drunk and went up to the green roof to hang out and then...”
“Maybe.”
“Someone killed him.”
“No way.”
“This is surreal.”
I press the base of my palms into my eyes until I’m ready to take more in. Another cop car. A siren. An unmarked sedan that speeds up with purpose. Police swarm. They tell us to move along, unless we have pertinent information.
Luke is here. My chest fills with warmth, like honey over toast. His demeanor is formal. He looks good in his gray suit. I am horrid. I am alive to have a fluffy, girlish thought when Danny is feet away. Dead. Gone.
I catch my chest and shake my head. I’m not a horrible person. It just hasn’t set in yet. Danny is gone.
Gone.
Luke notices me. He says something to the cop next to him and points toward Danny. The cop scurries away. Luke comes to me. I go to him. The dew from the grass slips through my impractical flats. He reaches a hand toward me. I almost reach out to him. I want him to take my hand and tug me into his arms so that my nose is smushed against his breastbone and I no longer need to think about the world.
But, in a flash, he jerks his hand back, as if he suddenly thought better of it. He puts both hands in his coat pockets.
Okay...
“I knew Danny,” I say.
Luke nods. He is cool. He is crisp. “Did you see anything?”
“No,” I say. “But he said he was about to talk to a virus expert. His TA, I think.”
“Who is his TA?”
“Was.”
Luke cocks his head.
“Who was Danny’s TA.” The tears gallop in my throat.
Luke puts a hand on my shoulder, but his squeeze seems to say “pay attention” more than “I’m here for you.”
“When you’re ready, I want to talk to you about this. Okay?” His eyes are so green.
“I understand,” I say.
A cop comes dashing up to us. Luke whips his hand off my shoulder. Of course he does. I’m diseased. I’m untouchable.
“Detective, we’ve found the roommate,” she says.
Luke puts his hands on his hips, which draws his coat back. The gun lingers on his belt. I fold my arms to keep myself together. I bite my lips.
“Thanks, I’ll be there in a second.”
When he turns back to me, he gives a lame, limp smile, then rubs it off his face. “I’ve got to...” I see him motion toward the crowd but only out of my peripheral vision because I’m staring at his gun. His hands come down on my shoulders.
“It’s just a gun, because I’m just a cop and cops have guns,” he says. “Is this going to be a problem for us?”
I shake my head no. “No, of course not.” I don’t add that there is no “us,” not before, and not now. And the fact that he’s a serious detective with a firearm hanging off his hip makes me pretty sure there won’t be an “us” in the future. If there is no “us,” there is no problem.
“Good,” he says. He gives a half smile—only one cheek pulls up on his lips. He strides toward the crowd. Toward Danny.