Page 45 of I Did Something Bad
“Khin, what’s going on?”
I give him a few innocent blinks. “Oh, the interrogation? It was fine,” I say with a dismissive shrug. “Ididtell them I wanted a lawyer if they want to talk to me again, though. I already told Yasmin.”
Silently, he surveys me in that way I don’t like, that way from the firstnight as though, against my will, I’ve got my entire history etched all over my body and clothes for him to take his sweet time reading. “What did they mean when they said you’d had a previous run-in with the police?”
I wave a hand. “Don’t worry about that. You’re not a real journalist until you’ve had at least one brush with the cops.”
“Khin,” he says, voice going protective. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. They just had a few questions.”
“About?”
My face twitches, and I don’t hide the fact that I’m gritting my teeth to hold myself back from exploding. “My personal history is none of your business,” I reply politely.
He flinches, eyes quickly darting to the soundproof car divider to make sure it’s still up. “It is when it involves me. And the authorities. Look, I’m only asking because I wanna be able to keep an eye out for you. And I can’t do that unless we’re on the same page.”
“Oh really? Isthatwhy?” I scoff.
“What doesthatmean?” Tyler asks, and the fact that he’s still keeping up this façade is what pushes me over the edge. I know you’re supposed to keep your enemies closer, but why am I still acting civil and playing ignorant toward a man who keeps putting on this performance to my face?
It means that I’m aware you’re asking about my interview so you can gather more dirt to use against me if you get backed into a corner and want to cut a deal,I want to yell.So that if it comes to it, your team can point out that you are a law-abiding citizen with not so much as a traffic ticket to your name, whereasIactively write full-page features on illegal abortion clinics.
“It means that I’m not stupid, Tyler,” I snap, not caring an iota about professionalism anymore. “That night, you only agreed that we shouldn’t call the cops when I pointed out the repercussions it’d have foryou,because that’s allyou’veever cared about from the start. Which is, you know, fair. We all have our own priorities.”
“That’s not—”
“I said it’sfine. But don’t keep reiterating this nonsense about caring about me. You’re keeping me close because I am the only person in the world who knows something that could damage your otherwise faultless reputation.” And then, at the point of no return, it comes out like word vomit: “I also know you’re keeping something from me. You’ve been keeping a secret from me since the first night we met, so don’t keep blindly repeating that I need to trust you when we both know that I have a very good reasonnotto.”
His mouth opens but no sound comes out. He’s more than startled.Hurt.But I am so furious right now that I can’t even curtail my tears as I continue.
“I don’t need you to come up with any more lies that I’m coerced into playing along with. If my editor heard the police had interrogated justme,which, by the way, would not have happened if I hadn’t been at that damn brunch in the first place, not even a press release from you would save my ass. From now on, you do your job and I do mine, and I’ll clean up my own messesmyself. We’re not a team. Let’s at least do each other the courtesy of admitting that we’re only looking out for ourselves. Regardless of what your big secret that you’re keeping from me is, and don’t you dare try to tell me that I’m imagining things because I know I’m not, stop trying to convince me that I should tell you everything when you won’t do the same with me. At least show me that modicum of respect.”
I snatch a tissue from the box in front of us and blow my nose. To his credit, he waits until I’m done dabbing my eyes and have somewhat recomposed myself before saying softly, “I’m sorry. I—” He cuts himself off. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats.
I shake my head, sapped. Of everything. “Stay out of my business. Please. I’ll take care of this on my own from now on.”
Twelve
I know who Jared Kirkwood is. Okay, I don’t know his full identity down to what size shoe he wears, but Ihavefound his Facebook and Instagram profiles (both public because of course he’s sloppy) and from what I’ve pieced together, I have a pretty good idea of who he was. Like the detectives said, he moved here from Sydney eight years ago. He’s a self-employed financial advisor who works remotely, which explains why no colleagues reported him as missing. According to the most recent photos of his apartment views, he lives downtown. And—this is the part that’s tripping me up—he has a girlfriend. Not just someone he started seeing, but a girlfriend of approximately two years. Her name is Dipar, she’s Myanmar, looks to be a few years older than me. They live together and even have a dog. Her profile isn’t public, but judging by her tagged photos, she’s alive and still lives in Yangon.
So why didn’tshefile a missing person report?
I’m tempted to send her a follow request, but what if the policehave contacted her first already and then they see my name on her phone?Thatwould be a tricky situation to explain, even with the best lawyers that money could buy sitting beside me.
I know I could ask Nay or Thidar to do it (have we done it in the past after being unceremoniously dumped by a guy and wondered if it was because there was someone new in the picture? Who’s to say, really?), but I haven’t talked to them since dim sum–gate apart from a shortI’m fine. It was a misunderstanding. No we’re not dating. I’ll call you guys as soon as I’m free.”And the next text I send in the group chat can’t beCan one of you guys add this completely random woman that we share zero mutual friends with but not ask me why?Besides, I’m still adamant about not pulling them into this.
After combing through the profiles of Jared’s followers whose photos Dipar has been tagged in over the last five months—and, yes, aware of the hypocrisy of my cyberstalkingmystalker’s (potential) girlfriend—I’ve determined that she’s going to be at the Nagar’s Breath bar tomorrow night. If this were a regular assignment, I’d get there early to grab a prime seat that was centrally positioned enough that I could watch the entrance, the bar, and the toilets, but far enough away that I remained inconspicuous. But there’s Tyler’s shoot.
We’re starting at 11A.M.until “tbd,” according to Clarissa’s email. I haven’t heard of this photographer—which is apparently the point. Keeping in mind that the whole cast and crew are Myanmar, Clarissa has tapped an up-and-coming Myanmar photographer called Thuzar Thant for this spread; the shoot is also taking place at her house, the second floor of which is her studio. Unconventional, but I’m intrigued.
Tyler, on his part, has respected my wishes all week. We don’t carpool anymore; I’m wary of cab drivers being bribed into sneaking photos of the set and of lurking paparazzi snapping photos of my license plate, so I’ve rented a car. And although, admittedly, I hadn’trealized quite how much I’d enjoyed our morning chats in the car, those forty-ish minutes of only the two of us in a soundproof limo backseat before we had to face the racket of a movie set, this new arrangement is for the best. His trailer is still my first stop when I arrive at the lot, but the extent of our greetings stops at a mutual, genial “Good morning.” Which is good. Preferable, even. Like I instructed, he’s doing his job and I’m doing mine.
Except, the rest of the week has also been a complete waste of time in terms of getting a scoop, and when you are working with a very limited amount of time (I triple-checked this morning, and this draft is due in under six weeks), half a week isa lot. At this point, I might as well already email Clarissa something along the lines of:Sorry, but it looks like I’m not going to be able to get any kind of scoop on Tyler because he’s keeping his distance because I, in a moment of unfettered fury, explicitlytoldhim to.
I realize there’s a somewhat easy solution here: I apologize. Say,Hey, Tyler, I’m sorry about the other day. I’m generally in a bad headspace these days and I took it out on you when I didn’t mean to (even though I absolutely did). Let’s be friends again?and pick up where I left off vis-à-vis gaining his trust. While my pride would rather I jump into shark-infested waters than apologize to Tyler, I know this is what must be done. It’s the only way out. I suck it up, make niceties, become “friends” (ugh) again, get my scoop, file the story, get that job, and then before I know it, I’ll be shoving my entire wardrobe into two (okay, maybe four) suitcases.
Vogue.I can suck it up and be buddies with Tyler Tun if it means a job atVogue.
