Nessa

Nessa heard her sister moving through the house, the creak of floorboards overhead, toilet flush, sink running, the front door clicking shut. Beside her Ronan slept, his lips parted, a soft snore on the breath in. Later she told the detectives she heard the car start on the street. The last sound that connected Deena to the world. Something could have happened right there outside as Nessa rolled back toward Ronan’s warm body, burrowed deeper under the comforter and slept.

Maybe an hour after she heard the car, Nessa walked down toward the museum for the papers. She hadn’t worn a scarf or hat and the wind blowing from the river was sharp, stinging her face. Afterward, every detail of that morning became crystallized, refined through repetitions into a series of stills. The naked trees. Her breath making small quick clouds in the air. The patch of ice at the corner of Aspen. The empty sidewalk. The blank grey of it all, everything bare, giving away nothing.

Back at the house she woke him. They drank coffee and read the papers. She repeated something Howard Dean had said about the war in Iraq. Ronan agreed.The Da Vinci Code was still number 1 on the bestseller list. Ronan handed her an article from theNew York Times and tapped the headline. It was about the death of Kitty Genovese in Queens. Next month marked the fortieth anniversary. Nessa vaguely remembered the story from a college class. The bystander effect. Thirty-eight people had heard the woman being attacked and no one had done anything.

She watched Ronan dress and pack his bag. One of his socks was black, the other navy blue, his hair sleep-matted at the back. She wished he wasn’t leaving. She listened to the sound of running water in the bathroom and was thinking about the wordablutions when her phone rang. It was Molly: Deena hadn’t shown up for her 7 a.m. shift.

Nessa opened the curtains and looked out the window at the empty space below, where Deena parked her car.

Later the detectives would tell her that Molly McKenna first called her at eight forty-five. When Ronan came back in, ready to go, Nessa was standing in the middle of her room, still holding the phone.

They drove to the train and talked about the things that might have held Deena up – a flat tyre, an accident, an appointment she forgot. Getting out of the car at Suburban Station, Ronan gazed up at the art deco facade. Nessa smiled because she knew he was about to tell her how much he liked it, for maybe the hundredth time. His hair was still flattened and she’d forgotten to tell him his socks were mismatched. Later she would remember watching him look up, and would hold that moment: the last time she was seeing him or anyone before she could never see anything the same again.

Back at the house she tried to read theNew York Times article. Kitty Genovese’s brother said that he’d found it difficult to cope after her death and had enli