Page 32 of I Did Something Bad
“No,” he says, not even pausing. “You know that’s too simple of a story. It wasn’t merely as opportunistic as that—”
“Tyler,” I cut him off brusquely. “Has it occurred to you that Idon’twant to relive the most traumatic night of my life? He’s dead,” I say, shushing my voice even though we’re still the only ones in the house. “Why does it matter who he was? What am I going to do, see if he has children? Track them down and apologize for leaving them fatherless?”
The back door opens, and Thidar’s laughter travels through the corridor. “Drop it. I don’t want to think about this anymore,” I hiss in one breath. Despite his frown, Tyler raises his hands in acceptance.
Patrick drives us both back, Thidar staying behind because she had two exhausting surgeries today and she wants an early night. We drop Tyler off first just in case somebody catches a glimpse of him in the car when I hop out at my place.
“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty?” Tyler asks, hand on the door handle.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I know where the lot is now. I can get a taxi.”
His forehead creases. “I’ll see you at seven thirty,” he says. Before I can respond, he opens the passenger door and ends the conversation. “Thanks again, man,” he says, clapping a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“Anytime,” Patrick replies from the driver’s seat.
We sit in silence as he makes a U-turn and heads toward my place. I check the time, even though I knew hours ago that it was far too late for my park plan. “Nice guy,” Patrick says, breaking the quiet. “Like,anactuallynice guy. My agency works with a lot of celebrities and he would be a dream client.”
I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. “Guess so.”
“You don’t like him.”
I startle in my seat. “What? Why would I bring someone I didn’t like to my best friend’s house?”
“Okay.” He tilts his head with a thoughtful air. “But you don’t… trust him?”
I consider it, then sigh. “He’s an actor,” I admit, deciding that it’s not like Patrick’s going to go and relay this information back to Tyler. “I… don’t trust actors. They act for a living. And he knows I’m writing a story on him. Of course he’s going to be on his best golden-boy behavior.”
He gives a short chuckle. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”
Back at mine, I change out of my clothes, go through my skincare routine, and put on a pair of fresh pajamas, but I don’t head for bed. Instead, I march into the guest room that doubles as my home office, pull down the whiteboard that’s hanging above my desk, and wipe clean the notes from my past few assignments.
I’m about to writeTYLER TUNin all caps at the top, but decide against it on the off chance that someone wanders in here at some point—I don’t know how or when. It’s not like I’m throwing a rager anytime soon—and sees this. Instead, I writeGOLDEN BOY.
In one spot, in a smaller font, I writeABORTION STORY,remembering his obsession with my article at our first dinner.
In another spot, I writePOSSIBLY ADOPTING DOG???
In a third,BOND?followed byFUN ROLES.
In a fourth,BRIDGERTON?
In a fifth,NOT MAKING ANY PLANS.
And, just so I have all my bases covered,RELATIONSHIP WITH MAY?because at this point, I’m taking everything he’s told me with a grain of salt.MOVIE PREMIERE REVEAL?I scrawl.
I hang the board back on the wall and step back so I can take it all in at once. There issomethinghere. Tyler is hidingsomething,and it has to do with at leastoneof these things. Maybe all of them? I don’t know.
My mind races back to that night in the park, when I’d asked him why he trusted me so blindly, and he was going to give me an answer—therealanswer—and then he didn’t.
My concentration shifts back to the board in front of me.
Tyler Tun, what were you going to let slip?
I don’t immediately go to sleep once I’m under the covers either; I know I should, but I can’t help it. Ben used to joke that he needed a seat belt to keep up with the speed of my mind. On my laptop, I open Yangon’s unofficial yellow pages—Facebook, obviously—and start looking into the guy I murdered (my murderee?).
Or I try to.
Methodically, I first go through all of my immediate friends and make sure that he’s not in any of their profile photos. Once that’s been checked off, I browse all the variations of the public “Australian expats in Myanmar” and “New Zealand expats in Myanmar,” as well as the wider “expats living in Myanmar” and “Yangon expats” Facebook groups (whatisit with white people who insist on calling themselves “expats”?) I can find and zoom in on the member photos, but at one point, all the middle-aged white men start to look the same.
