Page 2 of The New Couple in 5B

“No pressure,” I say, blowing out a laugh.

My first true-crime book was about the violent rape of a young Manhattan woman, the travesty of justice that followed where a man was wrongly convicted and the real criminal went free, then continued on to rape and kill three more women. It took me five years to research and write while working a full-time job as an editor. The book did well, not a runaway bestseller but a success by any measure. The moment was right for that book, post Me Too, where society was casting a new light on women wronged by men, looking at older stories through fresh eyes.

It’s been a year since the book came out, the paperback about to release soon. I can’t take five years to write another one.

Max puts a gentle hand on mine. His touch is warm and ignites memories it shouldn’t. His fingers graze my wedding and engagement rings, and he draws his hand back, steeples his fingers.

“Is thisreallywhat you want to be writing?”

“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think so.”

“Look,” he says, putting his glasses back on. “You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

I’m about to protest but it’s true. My husband, Chad, and I had been taking care of Chad’s elderly uncle Ivan, who recently passed away. Between being there for Ivan, Chad’s only family, in the final stages of his illness, and now managing his affairs, it’s been a lot. Scary to watch someone you love die, so sad, sifting through the detritus now of his long and colorful life. Uncle Ivan—he was all we had. I’ve been estranged from my family for over a decade. His loss feels heavy, something we’re carrying on our shoulders. With the temperature dropping and the holidays approaching, there’s a kind of persistent sadness we’re both struggling under. Maybe it has affected my work more than I realized.

I think of that box in the bottom of my bag, that little ray of light. I am seized with the sudden urge to go home and tear it open.

“Look,” he says when I stay quiet. “Just take some time to think about it, go deeper. Ask yourself, ‘Is this the story I really want and need to tell? Is it something people need to read?’ Makemeexcited about it, too. We have time.”

We don’t, actually.

The money from the first book—it’s running out. Chad has a low-paying gig in an off-off Broadway production. This city—it takes everything to live here. Our rent just went up and we need to decide whether or not we can afford to renew the lease. It’s just a one-bedroom, five-story walk-up in the East Village, and we’re about to be priced out unless one of us gets paid a significant sum. Chad has an audition for another better-paying job, but things are so competitive, there’s no way to know if he even has a chance. It’s just a commercial, not something he’s excited about, but we need the cash.

Today he’s at the reading of Ivan’s will. But we don’t expect to inherit anything. Ivan died penniless. His only asset the apartment that will go to his daughter Dana.

Did I rush the proposal because I’m feeling desperate? Maybe.

The waitress brings our meal and I’m suddenly ravenous. We dig in. The pizza is good, gooey and cheesy. The silence between us, it’s easy, companionable, no tension even though it’s not the conversation I was hoping to have. Writers, we only want to hear how dazzling we are. Everything else hurts a little.

“You said there was a lot to like,” I say, mouth full. “Whatdoyou like about it? Give me a jumping-off point to dive deeper.”

“I really like the occult stuff,” he says, shoving a big bite of penne into his mouth. It’s one of the things I love most about Max, his passion for good food. Chad is so careful about everything he eats, either losing or gaining weight for a role. “You kind of glossed over that.”

I frown at him. “I thought you didn’t like ghost stories.”

There were several supernatural elements to my last book—the little girl who dreamed about her mother’s death the day before it happened, how one of the children believed he communicated with his murdered sister through a medium. Both of those bits wound up on the cutting-room floor.Too woo-woo, according to Max.Let’s stay grounded in the real world.

“Idon’tlike ghost stories—per se,” he says now. “But I like all the reasons why peoplethinka place is haunted. I like what it says about people, about places, about mythology.”

I feel a little buzz of excitement then. And that’s why every writer needs a good editor.

The proposal is about an iconic Manhattan apartment building on Park Avenue that has been home to famous residents including a bestselling novelist, a celebrated sculptor and a young stage and screen star. It’s also had far more than its fair share of dark events—grisly murders, suicides and terrible accidents. It’s a New York story, really—the history of the building, its unique architecture, how it was built on the site of an old church that burned down. I want to focus on each of the crimes, the current colorful cast of characters that resides there, and tell the stories of the people who died there—including Chad’s late uncle Ivan, a renowned war photographer.

I’ll still have access to the building, even though we’re almost done cleaning out Ivan’s things. His daughter, from whom Ivan hadn’t heard in years, even as he lay dying and Chad tried to call again and again, is now circling her inheritance. She wasn’t interested in Ivan, or his final days, his meager possessions. But the apartment—it’s worth a fortune. Anyway, I’ve befriended the doorman, Abi. He is a wealth of knowledge, having worked in the building for decades. I think he’s long past retirement age but doesn’t seem to have any plans to hang up his doorman’s uniform.Some folks don’t get to leave the Windermere, Miss Rosie, he joked when I asked him how much longer he planned to work.Some of us are destined to die here.

“And I like the crimes,” Max says, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “So I think if we can tease some of those elements out, I can take it to the editorial meeting.”

The truth is I’m more excited about revising the proposal than I was about writing the book when I walked in here. He’s right. It’s not the architecture, the history of the building—it’s the darkness, the crimes, the people. The question—are there cursed or haunted places, some energy that encourages dark happenings? Or is it just broken people doing horrible things to each other? A mystery. That’s what makes a great story. And story is king, even in nonfiction.

“I’ll get right to work,” I say. “Thanks, Max.”

“That’s what editors are for, to help writers find their way to their best book.” He looks pleased with himself. “Now, what’s for dessert?”

Outside, a loud screech of tires on asphalt draws my attention to the street just in time to see a bike messenger hit by a taxi. In a horrible crunching of metal and glass, the biker hits the hood. His long, lanky limbs flailing, flightless wings, he crashes into the windshield, shattering it into spider webs, then comes to land hard, crooked on the sidewalk right in front of the window beside us. I let out an alarmed cry as blood sprays on the glass, red-black and viscous.

Max and I both jump to our feet. I find myself pressing against the bloody glass as if I can get through it to the injured man. I’m fixated on him, then remembering Ivan, those last shuddering breaths he took.

The biker’s eyes, a shattering green, stare. His right leg and left arm are twisted at an unnatural angle, as if there’s some unseen hand wrenching his body. I reach for my phone, but Max is already on his.We’ve witnessed an accident, on Broadway between Fifty-Fifth and Fifty-Sixth, outside Serafina. A man is badly injured.

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