Page 81 of I Did Something Bad
“But this isn’t the solution!” The thud of his fist on the door makes me jump back. “It was both of us. If you’re going to do this, I need to be there, too!”
“There’s no point in both of us taking the fall for this. I’m the one who shoved that pen in his ear, who threw him over the bridge. All you did was stopmefrom falling over,” I say, my voice stretched taut and thin. “I made a mistake. I have to own up to it. This person, the kind of person who recklessly jeopardizes the livelihoods of everyonearound her because she refuses to own up to what she did—that’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to be.”
I’m not expecting to hear the tears in his voice when he speaks. “Khin, please don’t do this. We’ll figure something else out.”
“There’s nothing else to figure out,” I say calmly. “May was right. There’s no way we could’ve kept this going—”
“No, you don’t—”
“This is the only logical conclusion.”
“What am I supposed to drink? You’re going to let me starve to death in here?” It’s a half-joke, half-desperate last-ditch attempt that, for a brief moment, cuts through the tension.
“My cup of water is still on my nightstand,” I say with a miserable, unwanted laugh. “And I think I stashed a pack of Oreos in the drawer. They’re vegan,” I remember to add.
“What?”
“Oreos. Most people don’t know it, but they’re vegan.”
“What if I’m allergic to Oreos?” he immediately counters.
That gets another laugh out of me. “You’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because.” I start to back away. “I know you, Tyler.”
I brush my teeth in the hallway guest bathroom with the spare toothbrush and paste I always keep in the cabinet, change into the set of clothes I left in my tumble dryer, and, as a last-minute and unconventionally sentimental gesture, I get one of my yellow mugs from the cabinet and place it in the middle of the otherwise empty dining table. Then, on the first piece of paper I can scrounge up—which just so happens to be a receipt at the bottom of my purse, because nothing screams “grand romantic gesture” like a scribbled note on the back of a receipt for one box of mints and a pack of bobby pins—I write:I’m sorry I couldn’t stay and have coffee together every morning.
I’m not one for emotional goodbyes, but I can’t help but stop at thedoor to survey the place one last time. I smile and nod to say,Thanks for the memories.
After coming at this from all angles, I’ve decided that I need to forget the police station and head for the Australian embassy. The detectives have made it clear that they have an agenda, but at least with Kira, I can be sure I’ll get some semblance of a fair trial. And after doing a lot of research, I’m praying that I have this right, even if it is a technicality: if I confess in her office, it’ll be on Australian soil, meaning she’ll get primary jurisdiction over the case. One of the reasons Kira and I have always gotten along so well is because we’re similar: hardworking, no-nonsense, blunt but fair. We might not be besties, but wearegood friends, and I trust her as much as I can trust anyone in this situation.
The streets are still desolate at this hour, which cuts my travel time in half. I’m aware of my heart rate accelerating as the embassy gates come into view. You’re not allowed to park in front of the building unless you’re staff, so I find a place down the street.
“You got this,” I whisper to myself as I take one last look in the rearview mirror.
Two bleary-eyed security guards are nursing tepid mugs of coffee when I walk up to the front shack. “Hi, do you have an appointment?” one of them leans down and asks through the small rectangular opening in the glass.
“I’m here to see Kira—” It takes me a second to recall her last name. “—Davis. Kira Davis.”
The guard rubs the sleep out of his eyes, checks the time, and surveys me. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks. Beside him, the other guard swivels in his chair and grabs a clipboard—presumably a list of people whodohave appointments.
“Not exactly. But we’re good friends. Is she in? Can you please tell her Khin’s here? Please, can you just call her?”
“I—”
I yank out my media accreditation card from my bag and place it against the glass. “I’m a journalist,” I explain. “Kira knows me. Can you please call her and tell her Khin wants to speak to her?”
The guard leans in closer to study the card, and, deciding it’s legit, holds up a finger as he picks up the phone. “Hi, Ms. Davis? There’s a—” He peers back over at my badge. “Ma Khin Haymar here to see you. She says she’s a journalist and… yes, will do.”
I go through the usual proceedings: hand over my NRC card so they can take down my details, let them inspect my bag, go through the metal detector, and then one of them escorts me to Kira’s office.
“Come in!” she yells out after the guard knocks on the door. She’s behind a large wooden desk, mounds of paperwork outlining the edges. “Khin!” she says, face brightening when I close the door behind me; that should be a good sign. “Take a seat! It’s beenforever!”
“Busy morning?” I ask, nodding at the papers as I sit down opposite her.
She quickly types something on her laptop then pushes it to the side. “Do not get me started,” she says, rolling her eyes.
