It’s not a splatter. It’s not a gib sound from games. The sound a body makes when hitting the sidewalk from fifty-two floors up… it’s more of a thunk… no, it’s more of a—

  “Nick?” Rachel asks. I glance up.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say, distracted at my desk, my chin on my hands.

  “My collateral I’m working on.”

  She’s showing me her laptop. Her ad mockup has Aaron Judge holding the little wooden box that our season ticket holders get, opening it slightly with one hand, Yankees logo prominently displayed.

  “Don’t we have any other players?” I ask peevishly.

  “Bro, you know I don’t have any leeway here. And you know who’d I put instead.” It’s really not fair that she’s having to design this collateral herself, but Zach is obsessive about limiting the outside ad agency’s hours as much as possible. They’ll still finalize the graphic, though, as Rach spearheads the winter season ticket campaign.

  “Alex Verdugo just had a daughter. You thirst for the most inappropriate people.”

  Rachel is four years younger than me, joining the organization fresh out of NYU, but we had hit it off instantly. She reaches up, plays with her hair done up in a 1940s style bob.

  “I’m not a fan of the font, but otherwise looks good,” I tell her.

  “Zach loves Palantino. I’m just currying favor.”

  “But for ad copy? You know what, I don’t care.”

  “Hey,” she replies sternly, snapping her laptop closed, exposing the Betty Boop sticker on the back. “You’ve been out of it all morning. You were radio silent on the group chat. Did you really take what we were saying about your game personally?”

  I don’t have my phone on me for my flights because I don’t want a GPS tracker on me.

  And either way, the last thing I care about are my friends’ jokes about how long I’ve been single. I had turned off notifications on my phone and had taken one melatonin, two Benadryl, and three gin and tonics to get the Russian’s screaming out of my head. It didn’t work. Now my head feels like a ship floundering in a squall.

  “No, I… just couldn’t sleep last night for some reason.”

  “Well, not from street noise,” she says. “Your part of the city is so quiet, it should be illegal.”

  But Rachel and I never even considered dating. First, she had her boyfriend Sammy when we met, then I had Janelle… way too long ago. And at this point, she’s just one of the guys.

  She hates it when I say that too, which is why I say it all the time. When I’m in better spirits.

  “Yeah. How’s finance bro?” I ask, adroit as a brick, to change the subject.

  “Had to let him go.”

  I snort, rubbing my forehead. “If he fumbled a girl with access to free Yankees tickets, then that’s on him.”

  She shrugs. “He wasn’t even into baseball. When will you tell me what’s really eating you?”

  Exactly never. I sometimes hate how well Rach knows me. “Have I told you you wear too much makeup?”

  She grins a toothy grin. “That’s my boy. Glad to have you back. Need to get this finalized, see you.” She walks back to her desk.

  I look back at my own laptop before I think once again back to the Russian and his strangled cries. He was some kind of oligarch in construction who had evaded all the war sanctions somehow and traveled freely. And at least there’s an obvious suspect. All the usual jokes about Russians tripping and falling out of tall buildings are recycling themselves online. Even his wife probably thinks I was an assassin sent on the orders of the Kremlin.

  There are two people on the planet who don’t think Vladimir Putin had this guy rubbed out: me and Putin.

  #

  “Hey Rojas.” I brush into the bodega near my building that evening, hoodie up. The store’s deserted like it usually is outside of the morning rush. The other, bigger store a block away gets the lion’s share of foot traffic. I turn to move sideways, tiptoeing past the grate for the basement stairwell that dominates the middle of the narrow floor. For fear of falling in. Silly, I know. The narrow store is immaculately kept, by bodega standards anyway, not a bag of chips or package of sweet rolls out of place.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Rojas barely nods, his eyes on his phone. Squat, black hair, expression always neutral and expressionless. He could be either ecstatic or enraged at how the Yankees game is ending, and either way he’d have the checked-out flat affect of a school security guard.

  I slap a chocolate bar and a six-pack of beer in front of him. “And one of the other things.”

  Another barely-nod, his eyes still on the game. We’re manhandling the Cubs with ease to the point that I’m not even watching. Also because I remain bitterly opposed to interleague baseball. The old-timers were right about that one.

  “Which other thing, boss?” Rojas asks neutrally.

  “The Russian in the news,” I say, glancing around. “That thing.”

  “Mmm.” He doesn’t react as Giancarlo Stanton gets a base hit. “That’ll be $35.50 and a quick favor, boss.”

  “Fine.” I reach for my wallet and pass him two bills as he flicks a switch. The bank of security monitors above his head switch off. I raise an eyebrow questioningly.

  “Top shelf, in the middle. The good toilet paper. Can’t stand the one-ply shit, man.” I turn, look over my left shoulder. The top shelves of this place are like literally nine feet high and are lined with toilet paper and paper towels.

  His 12-hour shifts too often become 16 hours. Not really able to blame him.

  I glance around again. Still nobody. I scooch delicately past the staircase’s trap door, then allow myself to lift off the ground, my shoes dangling midair. Turning as I hover, I look for and grab a roll of what looks like 2-ply.

  “Grab another, boss?” I hear below me. “Doubt they’ll think anyone stole from that high.”

  Guess not. I reach for another, can’t quite snag it at this awkward angle. Hovering in place is actually harder than flying and takes a lot more concentration to not drift. Finally, I grab it, then float over in front of him and set down. He reacts to that the way I expect him to.

  “Don’t forget to stop by for coffee in the morning,” he says as he passes my change to me. I stuff the candy bar into a jacket pocket. “Might have some directions written down for you.” He turns the security cameras back on.

  Like I said, I have nobody to talk to about this, not even the one other person who knows. He’s deadass more interested in my Yankees job than the fact that I can defy the laws of physics.

  Except, that’s probably not true. It’s just that he never asks about it, and I never volunteer.

  “Appreciate it.” I grab my change and the beer and leave.

  #

  My friends are over, and all I can think of is the stomach-churning sound of the Russian’s impact on the pavement.

  “You fucking suck!” Angel hollers as I take off my coat. He looks ready to throw the PlayStation controller across my living room.

  “He has an unfair advantage,” I declare as Carter exults triumphantly, fistbumping Vick. “He’s got insider knowledge. He’s insider playing!” I slide the beer into the fridge.

  “‘Insider playing’ is crazy,” Carter announces with a laugh. “I’m dead.” He’s luxuriating on my La-Z-Boy like it’s a throne. It’d been a gift from my late dad who’d been convinced no real man is complete without one.

  “But you work for 2K, and the game is literally called 2K,” Rachel tells him, sitting at my kitchen table, her laptop out, still working on her season ticket blast from today.

  “As a project manager, and not even for NBA2K! You all act like I’ve got Jokic giving me tips!”

  They continue their back and forth as I stand in the kitchen, scrolling my phone. I can’t be searching for anything too specific, but there’s nothing from the NYPD about suspects in the Russian’s case.

  “Wanna join in, Rachel?” Vick asks.

  She just groans. “Boys and their gaming.”

  Oh. That’s my cue. “But you’re one of the boys!” I call out. She grabs her laptop with both hands, looking ready to heave it at me as the guys laugh.

  I don’t. All I can think of is law enforcement showing up at my door with more than a few questions. No, worse: I can think of Russian brutes at my door, not bothering to ask questions.

  Vick’s rooting around my fridge. “Beer me,” Carter calls out as Vick gives the thumbs up. I’m also worried about the entire group’s alcohol intake. We’re not in college anymore. Then again, I’m enabling it, aren’t I?

  Tossing Carter a beer, Vick opens his own before he’s back on the controller. He keeps his blond hair cropped short; his eyes always look slightly worried, like Linus from Peanuts. “Ok, next question,” he begins. “Sydney Sweeney, except you’re not allowed to ever touch her boobs or you catch dick cancer, or else…” He glances mischievously at Rachel.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warns, her carefully maintained eyebrows arched. She and Vick had actually hooked up over one weekend last year, before he met Evelyn, and we all still give them both shit about it.

  “Ok, fine. Or else, Ariana Grande, except she’ll make a brutal diss track about you once you’re her ex.”

  “I don’t think she’s the one famous for that,” I mutter, concentrating on my phone.

  “Hey! No disrespect! You know how my girlfriend is about you-know-who!” Vick exclaims.

  “Look at you, Vick,” Carter taunts him, eyes on the game. “Stumbling around worse than a Russian by a high window.”

  Rachel snickers at Vick as my heart lurches in my throat. The fucking death cry…

  I can’t help but gasp. A clatter as my phone drops to the floor in its protective case.

  “Nick?” Rach asks, worried.

  Screw beer. I grab the bottle of Beefeater gin from atop my fridge. Choosing not to respond, I pour, wondering how many Benadryl I’ll be guzzling down tonight.