Chapter 7: Shadows of the Past

As we pull away from the island, I lean back in my seat, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The darkness of the ocean stretches out beneath us, vast and endless, but the decision I’ve made feels strangely liberating. I know this is going to be the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, but I also know it’s something I have to do.

The ride back to Manhattan is quieter, the tension in the air softened by the darkness outside. I watch as the lights of the city come into view, glittering like stars against the night sky. By the time we touch down, it’s well past midnight, the streets almost empty save for a few late-night wanderers.

As I step out of the helicopter, the cool night air hits me, a stark contrast to the warmth of the chopper. Jones and Anderson lead the way, their expressions as impassive as ever.

“Ready to go home, Professor?” Jones asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah,” I reply, the weight of the day settling over me like a heavy blanket. “I’m ready.”

As we make our way to the waiting car, I can’t help but glance back at the helicopter, at Pearl, who gives me a quick salute before taking off into the night. I watch until the chopper is nothing more than a distant speck in the sky, then turn back to the car, my mind already racing with what lies ahead.

The crisp night air greets me as we step out onto the helipad, a welcome change from the thick tension that filled the helicopter. The city sparkles below, alive with a million lights, and I inhale deeply, trying to clear my mind.

Anderson’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His expression shifts slightly, a mix of weariness and something like regret. He mutters a quick apology to Jones before stepping away to take the call. I can hear snippets of the conversation—the soft tones of his wife, the frustration in his voice as he tries to explain why he’s running so late.

When he hangs up, he turns to Jones with a resigned sigh. “I’m heading off, man. My wife’s going to kill me for coming home so late without warning her. I promised no more late nights on the job—she’s not keen on a divorce, and neither am I.”

Jones smiles, a knowing look in his eyes. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll take the professor home.”

Anderson nods, giving me a polite nod before hailing a cab that just happens to be passing by. As he slides into the backseat, I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. At least he has someone waiting for him at home, someone who cares whether he’s late or not. I push the thought away as quickly as it comes. There’s no point dwelling on it.

Jones gestures towards a sleek black car parked nearby. “Shall we?”

I nod, following him to the car and sliding into the passenger seat. As the door closes behind me, I feel a strange sense of finality, as if the decision I made over Frigid Rock is now set in stone, no turning back.

The city unfolds around us as we drive, a blur of neon lights, tall buildings, and the ever-present hum of late-night traffic. New York never sleeps, and tonight is no exception. The streets are alive with people—some rushing home after a long day, others just beginning their night. The rhythmic click of high heels on the pavement, the distant wail of a siren, the muted conversations of passersby—it all blends into the familiar symphony of the city.

I glance at my phone, instinctively checking the time, only to find the screen dark. Dead battery. With a sigh, I reach for my watch, surprised to see that it’s almost midnight. Time slipped away from me in that helicopter, lost in the whirl of thoughts and decisions.

Jones navigates through the city with ease, the car weaving through traffic as we make our way from the helipad in Midtown toward my apartment in the brownstone-lined streets of the Upper West Side. The closer we get, the more my mind drifts, thinking about everything that lies ahead. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Greene, my sweet elderly neighbor, to look after Mr. Mittens during the experiment. She’ll love that—she adores him, always stopping by to check on him when I’m at work, leaving little treats on his scratching post. She’s been like a grandmother to me, in her own quiet, unobtrusive way.

I let out a slow breath, trying to push away the worries that creep in. At least I don’t have a husband or kids to leave behind during the experiment. That thought brings a pang of sadness, a reminder of what I’ve lost. If things had gone differently, if I hadn’t lost… I shake my head, trying to clear the memory, but it clings to me like a shadow.

I remember the day I lost my son as if it’s etched in my memory with a searing iron. That was the day everything started to crumble around me—my marriage, my life, my very being. Before that, Joe and I were the epitome of high school sweetheart success. He was the charismatic, slightly older track star; I was the brainy girl who’d skipped two grades. We were opposites in so many ways, yet we fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

We married young, straight out of high school. He was off to the police academy, chasing his boyhood dream, while I was the young prodigy accepted into NYU’s criminology program. Everything seemed so perfect, so idyllic. But perfection is often just a facade, isn’t it?

Joe’s dream of fatherhood clashed with my academic aspirations. “Professor Smarty Pants,” he’d tease, but the nickname started to carry a hint of resentment as years passed. When I finally gave in to his desire for a family, balancing my thesis with pregnancy, it felt like a compromise I could manage. Joe was especially happy after finding out our baby was a boy, as he’d always told me he wanted at least one son. Someone to play ball with, to teach to play electric guitar, to take camping, and all that other macho father-son stuff. We were both over the moon at the prospect of a son, but it was marred by his insistence that I drop my studies to focus solely on motherhood.

But I couldn’t give up my dream of being a top criminologist. I worked harder than ever, pushing myself with late nights and tight deadlines. By then, Joe had graduated from the police academy and joined the 97th precinct as a full-time officer. With a baby on the way, we were both stressed, and I know he wanted me to stay at home like a good little housewife. But I’d worked so hard to be considered a star student, a prodigy, top of my class. I was one of the youngest PhD students ever at NYU, and I wasn’t going to give that all up.

I was just over seven months pregnant on the day of my graduation, the day I achieved my PhD at the tender age of just twenty-one. It’s the day my entire world came crashing down. I can still feel the warmth of blood trickling down my leg as I stepped up to the podium to collect my degree, the horrified gasps around me, the rush to the hospital, and the devastating news: our son was gone. Joe’s blame cut deeper than any knife, echoing my own guilt. Straight after we lost the baby, he said it wouldn’t have happened if I’d just listened to him, if I’d prioritized our unborn son rather than my studies and my stupid PhD. He turned to the bottle, and I turned to my work, an escape from the unbearable reality.

Our marriage spiraled into a dark abyss. Some nights he’d try to force himself on me, his breath reeking of alcohol, and I’d lock myself in the bathroom and cry myself to sleep on the cold tiles. My sex drive had died along with our unborn son, and I was scared of Joe’s touch, so filled with guilt and shame. Soon Joe accused me of being frigid, a useless prude, worthless as a woman.

The final straw was finding out that he’d been having an affair with my cousin Anne, who I grew up with like a sister after my aunt took me in as a child. When I confronted him about it, all he said was that he was leaving me for “a real woman, someone who can please a man and give him a son.”

The divorce was inevitable, and the last I heard, he’s engaged to Anne, and they’re expecting their first child.

Good for them, I guess.