Her whole body seemed to droop at that moment and she flung her head back and forth.
“You can’t tell him!” she screamed. “I won’t let you.”
“But how much better for you to tell him than for him to find out from the cops,” I said. “He must know how you feel about abortion. He’ll understand.”
“No, no, no,” she yelled. And then suddenly she was taking off across the room toward the terrace door. She grabbed the handle and flung the door open. I could feel a rush of cold air even from where I was standing. Whitney stepped outside and, to my horror, flung herself against the outer wall of the terrace. My God, I thought, she’s going to jump.
“I need some help,” I yelled, into the bowels of the apartment. Then I rushed outside.
“Whitney,” I said, coming up behind her. “Don’t be crazy. You—”
Before I could say another word, she spun around and slugged me in the face with her fist.
I stumbled backward and simultaneously raised my arm to my face, anticipating another strike. She struck again, this time at my chest. Though the fabric of my coat absorbed the blow, the force of her punch made me stagger backward even more, until I backed into the outside wall of the terrace. I tried to right myself, ready to hit back somehow, but then she charged me, hurling her body into mine. Using the palm of my hand, I shoved hard into her shoulder, trying to push her away. As I raised my hand to strike her again, I felt her hand reach between my legs. I gasped in surprise and confusion. It took me a second to realize that she was trying to hoist me up. She was planning to throw me off the terrace.
Chapter 22
Terrified, I yanked my left arm to my body, pointed the elbow toward Whitney, and with all my strength, drove the elbow into her face. She reeled back and doubled over. I braced myself for another charge, but when Whitney looked up, I saw that she was starting to wheeze. A second later she collapsed into a sitting position on the floor of the terrace
“Help me,” she muttered. It didn’t seem like she was faking it. “Please. My inhaler.”
“Where is it?” I yelled.
“In my purse.”
I charged back into the apartment, raced the length of the living room, and grabbed the brown hobo bag off the hall table. It would take extra seconds, but I needed to alert the women in the kitchen to call 911. I propelled myself down a hallway toward the still-constant sound of chatter until I found a huge, sprawling kitchen. But there was no one there. My eyes followed the sounds to a TV on the wall—it was playing a tape of some kind of cooking class. There had never been anyone in the kitchen at all.
I tore back out to the terrace. Whitney was wheezing heavily, searching desperately for air. I upended her purse, letting the contents splatter at my feet—keys, pens, a makeup bag, wallet. In the middle of the mess I spotted the inhaler. I snatched it and handed it to Whitney. Like a robot, she flipped off the top with her thumb. She pulled it to her mouth and pumped. Then pumped again. She continued to wheeze, harder, and her eyes grew wide with fright.
“It’s empty,” she said hoarsely. “Help me.”
“Have you got another?” I yelled above the wind.
She flopped her head every which way, and it was impossible to tell if she meant yes or no, but then she flung her right arm toward the door.
“Where?” I was screaming now. “In the bathroom?”
No answer. Just desperate wheezing, her hands clutching her throat. I raced back into the apartment, toward where I assumed the master bedroom was. En route, I grabbed a phone and hit 911.
“There’s a woman here having a bad asthma attack,” I said. “You must send an ambulance right now.” I rattled off the address.
“Does she have an inhaler?” the operator asked after I’d given the key information.
“Yes, but it’s no good. I’m trying to find another.”
“Try to keep the person calm. Tell her to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth.”
The idea of me calming Whitney down seemed preposterous. I’d located the bathroom by now, and I pawed through the medicine cabinet, spilling cosmetics and prescription drugs onto the counter. No inhaler. I tried the bedside tables next, with no success. After that, with adrenaline coursing through me, I made a desperate stab at the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cupboards. Still no luck. Trying to calm Whitney seemed the only course of action.
I’d left the terrace door open, and the living room was now frigid, with wind whipping through it. When I stepped outside, I saw that Whitney was lying sprawled out on the cement floor, totally still. Bending down, I realized that she didn’t seem to be breathing. I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on her bluish lips, but there was no response. In desperation I picked up the inhaler. Was it really empty or just stuck? I turned it over. On the flat end was a small puncture hole, as if it had been stabbed with a sharp object.
I glanced back at Whitney, tears of anxiety welling in my eyes. It was pretty clear she was dead.
Five hours later, I was sitting in one of Landon’s armchairs, bundled up in a thick sweater and sniffling and dabbing at my nose with a tissue. An hour earlier, a Godzilla-sized cold had suddenly invaded my system, in about the time it takes to say, “Please no, I so don’t need this right now.” My throat throbbed and my head ached. Landon had just served me a bowl of homemade lentil soup, but I was having a hard time even tasting it.
“I feel so guilty,” Landon said. “I’m sure I’m the one who gave you this dreadful cold.”
“Stop,” I said. “I’ve been freezing my ass off in barns and on balconies for the last few days, and I probably have no one to blame but myself.”
“And Whitney, of course.”
“Yes,” I murmured. “And Whitney.”
The EMS team had arrived less than ten minutes after my futile attempts at mouth-to-mouth. Two patrol cops had followed practically on their heels. And not, it turned out, because of my 911 call. Someone from a nearby high-rise had seen the struggle on the terrace and alerted the police to it. Thankfully they had included the fact that a woman in a light-colored blouse was trying to give a woman in black the heave-ho over the edge. This provided me with a certain amount of credibility as I tried to explain my role in such a fucked-up mess to first the patrol cops, and then second, at greater length, to the two detectives who arrived at the scene about fifteen minutes later.
I was asked to accompany one of the detectives to the precinct, which was good because it spared me coming face-to-face with Cap—though I managed to catch a glimpse of him charging into the building just as I was being driven away in an unmarked police car. His face was drained of blood.
At the precinct I gave my statement in as much detail as possible, and when I was done, urged the detective to call Officer Collinson. They talked for at least fifteen minutes, with the detective standing far enough away from me that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He eyed me, though, through the entire conversation. I had a feeling Collinson was giving him an earful about what a bad girl I’d been. I knew I would have to call Collinson later and try to make peace with him.
“You can go now,” the detective said, after snapping his phone shut. “But please be available tomorrow. We’ll need to talk to you further as we pursue this matter.”
On the cab ride home, I tried Beau but reached only his voice mail. As I disconnected I saw that I had a message. And lo and behold it turned out that my old friend at Buzz, Nash Nolan, had phoned. Automatically I started to dial in his number and then stopped. I didn’t have an ounce of desire to talk to the dude at the moment.