Cross My Heart

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I want him to die. I want his heart to literally stop beating.”

I look up from my phone, frown at my office door, which a woman’s voice has breached.

“Like, if he doesn’t stop breathing, what’s even the point?” In her pause, I’m the one who stops breathing. “Do you think this dress will make him do that?”

I exhale, massage my forehead, picture the bride preening in front of her friends.

“Definitely!” one of them chirps.

I’m operating on only a couple hours of sleep, but I’m determined to work my entire shift. My hair is curled, I’m wearing heels, and I waved at my parents as I left the driveway this morning, my mother’s face flashing between the curtains she’d just flicked open. I may not be helping any brides at the moment, but my fingers have the telltale indents of hauling gowns to dressing rooms, the hangers having pinched my skin like talons.

I’m doing my best. Even if that means I’ve had the same spreadsheet open for ten minutes, its cells untouched. Even if I’m more preoccupied by social media than the bride out front who wants a dress that kills.

My phone’s on airplane mode so I can check the Instagram Story Blair just posted without her finding my name among its viewers. It’s a post she’s shared from Burnham Bookshop; they’ll be hosting a “community gathering in memory of Morgan Thorne” tonight on the town green, and they’ve billed it as “a chance for his fans and neighbors to grieve together and honor his work.” Blair shared the post without comment, giving no indication of whether she’ll be attending, but I can’t imagine she will. It seems excruciating, standing among strangers as they mourn a man they didn’t actually know—when Blair, by Morgan’s own admission, knew all his secrets.

I swipe to my text thread with Nina, even though I checked it only minutes ago. No new messages. No typing bubble. I texted her last night as soon as my parents left, letting her know I had my phone back, sending her proof of life. That message sits at the bottom of the screen, unanswered. Maybe she was working last night? We haven’t been in touch enough lately for me to know her schedule like I usually do. Still, even if she did have a shift, it’s odd she wouldn’t respond to me when she left the hospital this morning. That’s usually her first order of business—catch up on all the inane texts I’ve sent her: complaints about customers, cute pictures of Bumper, funny memes that feel like us. Now I’m worried that her silence is intentional, that she’s retreating from me, still uncomfortable about our conversation in her car.

I know she and my parents don’t think I’m a suspect the same way the cops do, but they’re clearly concerned I misjudged something. They think my bad habits—wanting love, wearing my Rosie-colored glasses—have led me into trouble again. And maybe Nina doubts there’s even a second Rosie; maybe she thinks it was me all along, the woman who’s been dating Morgan. I lied to her about writing to him; can I really blame her for wondering what else I’ve lied about?

I should have asked Jackson more questions last night. Too stunned by his suggestion that I have an imposter, I didn’t even inquire about Other Rosie at all. But if I knew what Morgan wrote about her in the emails Jackson referenced, I’d have something concrete to share with Nina, something she might scramble to respond to. Oh my god, that’s CRAZY , she’d text—meaning Other Rosie, not me—and we’d work together to uncover the identity of the woman who’s stolen mine.

I toy with the idea of DMing Blair. She’s got to be the “friend” Jackson said Morgan was emailing; at Sweet Bean, she teased him about his novel-like messages. Maybe I could explain my connection to him, ask if—as Morgan’s best friend—he’d told her anything about a woman named Rosie, and hope she believes me when I swear I’m not the one he meant. But when I open the app again, I’m still on her story, and I see she’s added another. I tap to read it. She’s shared the post about the bookstore’s “community gathering” again, but this time, she included some text: Thanks to @burnhambookshop for hosting this event tonight. I wasn’t sure if I was up for this, but I’ve decided that crying at home is getting me nowhere. I want to be around people who care about him too.

I nod at the caption, as if the words were meant for me alone. Because crying at home hasn’t gotten me anywhere either. Neither has hiding in my office between twenty-minute bursts of work. Morgan’s still dead. There’s still a woman out there using my name, wearing my hair. And if I’m going to find out who she is and what she wants, there’s only one other person I can try. So if Blair’s pushing herself to go to that gathering tonight, then so am I.

The town green is strung with stars. Twinkle lights crisscross from telephone poles to trees and back to streetlamps, a sparkling ceiling above the festivities. And I do mean festivities. I expected something hushed and somber, hands cupping candles, heads bent in contemplation, but even before I step onto the green, I’m struck by a wave of laughter and chatter. It froths toward me, sucking me in like the pull of a tide.

I scan the crowd for familiar faces but come up empty. I thought I might see Edith here, but I’m actually relieved not to find her. I still haven’t responded to her shell-shocked text about Morgan’s death—unable to pretend I’m clueless about it, unable to confess I’m more informed than I’d ever want to be—and any conversation I’d stumble through with her would only distract me from the one I came here to have.

All across the lawn, people sip from plastic cups, clump together in groups, clutch books beneath their arms. I catch the spine of one— Someone at the Door —and a memory flickers. No, not a memory. Not mine, anyway. It’s Daphne’s, her poems so vivid I still see the images of the night her sister died: chipped paint on her front door, a gloved hand reaching through broken glass for the dead bolt. It hits me again; I never got to confront Morgan about what he did to her, never got to hear his perspective on what Daphne called “theft” in one of her poems.

I pull in a queasy breath, step deeper into the crowd.

The owner of Burnham Bookshop moves from group to group, attempting to pass out candles, but people barely register her presence. One woman throws her head back, slaps her friend’s arm, and cackles, a sound that chills me, despite the humid evening. There’s something almost vulgar about the atmosphere, much more celebratory than somber, as if we’re at a book launch instead of a memorial.

The air ripples around me, hazy as a dream. I weave across the green, picking up snippets of conversation, each more dizzying than the last.

“—snagged one of the only signed copies they had in stock this morning. Do you think it’ll be worth something now?”

“—never read him, but my sister’s obsessed. I’m honestly just here to make her jealous. Speaking of which: let’s take a pic—”

“—the chief of police. He’s a family friend, and he assured me the community is not in danger; this was a targeted attack. Which is a huge relief. I have kids . But it does make you wonder: What could this man have done to deserve that kind of violence?”

When I emerge from a particularly tight knot of people, I think I see a ghost—Daphne’s—lurking at the edge of the green. I freeze, midstep, then blink the phantom into focus. It’s Blair, standing beneath a streetlamp, the light emphasizing the shine of her dark hair.

Her arms are crossed as she glares at the crowd, and it’s there in the pinch of her face: this isn’t the reverent event she expected either. She’s got one foot on the curb behind her, as if she’s thinking of leaving, and as I get closer, I see what her makeup has failed to mask—bloodshot eyes, puffy skin. The same features my mother noticed on me last night.

“Excuse me?” a voice booms across the green. “Could I have your attention for a moment?” I turn to find the bookstore owner tapping a microphone.

She thanks everyone for coming, mentions that, although she sold out of Morgan’s books at the store this morning, she’ll be getting more in stock soon and is happy to take orders in the meantime.

“As a reminder, we’re also collecting donations tonight to Page Turners, a literacy program Morgan supported,” she says above the crowd, which is already back to murmuring. Sensing she’s losing them, she encourages people to talk to one another about their favorite Morgan novel. Laughter snakes through the crowd at the suggestion, and that’s when I realize what this night really feels like—not a book launch, but a book club, one where the author’s work gets pushed aside in favor of juicy conversation.

I’m about to turn around, look for Blair again, when someone taps my shoulder. I spin and then startle; Blair is two feet away, staring at me—or at least my hair.

“You’re Rosie,” she says. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh. Yeah. H-hi,” I stammer. After only seeing her on social media—besides that day in Sweet Bean—it’s strange to be addressing her directly. Even stranger that she’s addressing me.

“So you’re the woman Morgan was seeing.”

“Oh,” I repeat. “I’m actually, uh—” I fumble for how to explain, and in my hesitation, she steps even closer.

“I’m Blair. His best friend. I figured you’d be here tonight.”

There’s something dark in her expression, like I’m a threat, and I realize she’s probably made the same assumptions I have—that the woman from Morgan’s emails could have been the one to kill him.

“No, I’m a different Rosie!” I say, and Blair squints at me. “My name is Rosie, Rosie Lachlan, but I’ve never even met Morgan in—”

“Your hair’s pink,” Blair cuts in, her tone like a lawyer calling objection .

“I know, but I can explain that. Well, actually, I can’t. But maybe you can help.”

Her eyes rake across my face like nails. “Start making sense.”

“I have Daphne’s heart,” I blurt, since that’s where my connection with Morgan begins.

Blair’s face convulses with confusion, so I hold out my MedicAlert bracelet, then rush ahead, sharing the story that’s becoming well-worn, the details softening like clothes after too many washes. It’s all less vivid than the first time I told it, less mine. Still, I describe my transplant, my messages with Morgan, and with every sentence, Blair’s brows sink deeper. I speed up, admit that, even though I figured out Morgan’s identity from the start, I kept that from him, kept my own a secret too. Finally, I conclude with Jackson’s imposter theory and the fact that whoever Morgan was seeing left strands of her hair at the crime scene.

“I submitted a hair sample,” I say, “to prove it won’t match.”

Blair stares at me like the hair at issue is porcupining around my head. Then she spits out a question that yanks us back to the beginning: “ You had a heart transplant? With Daphne’s heart?”

She says it with something like disgust, as if I took it intentionally. Hunted Daphne down to be my organ donor. As if I wanted Morgan, even back then, and found some way to kill his wife, save my own life, and seduce him all at once.

I don’t answer her with words. Instead, I step closer to the streetlight and tug on my collar until she sees the tip of my scar. She drags her gaze along it like a scalpel.

“Morgan didn’t— This is the first time I’m hearing about Donor Connection or whatever,” she says—and I feel the sting of that, pricking my exposed skin. “He said he met you in a café.”

“We’re two different people,” I reiterate. “The Rosie he met in the café and the Rosie he talked to online.”

“But you both have pink hair? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

I inhale slowly. “Like I said, the detective thinks the other Rosie was impersonating me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t understand why I’m a part of this. I was only talking to the cops in the first place because I was the one who called 911 about Morgan, but then suddenly—”

“Wait. You were the one who found him?”

“Oh. I— Yeah, but—”

“Let me get this straight. Morgan was dating someone named Rosie, and then Rosie ”—she points at me—“called the cops to tell them he was dead. And now you’re telling me that Rosie ”—she jabs her finger again—“is also Daphne’s heart recipient. Which is something Morgan never mentioned.”

“I did find his body,” I say, and I explain that, too: Morgan’s invitation to meet, the open front door, Sickle slipping out. I even pull up the sleeve of my jacket to show her the scratches from Sickle’s claws—realizing too late that she might see them how the cops do: scratches from Morgan, maybe, as he defended himself from a knife.

But her expression actually changes at that—not screwing tighter with distrust, but loosening. She holds out her own forearm, where there are scratches that look just like mine.

“My fiancée and I are adopting the cat,” she says. “I’ve known that thing its whole life, but it still acts like I’m a stranger.”

I smile a little, in solidarity.

“There are two different Rosies,” I tell her for the fourth time. “Before that night, I’d never stepped foot in Morgan’s house—and I definitely didn’t go on dates with him. Look, I can show you our DonorConnect messages. To prove I knew him only through that.”

I pull up the thread, thrust it toward her a little too close. She steps back, taking the phone from me, squinting at the screen. I watch her skim, scroll, then slow her pace. After a couple minutes, her eyes tick from the phone to my face and back to the phone.

“He never mentioned he was talking to the person with Daphne’s heart,” she tells me again, and this time, she’s the one who seems stung.

You know all my secrets , he told her that day I saw them in Sweet Bean—but I guess he kept me as one.

“The cops checked my phone against the one Morgan had for Rosie. It’s not the same number. I never spoke to him on the phone. I never even spoke to him in person. That’s what I was on my way to do that night. I actually… I wanted to confront him.”

It’s the wrong word to use. Blair’s head snaps up from my phone, her gaze pointed again.

“Confront him about what?”

Somebody’s laughter cuts between us, a reminder we’re not alone.

I lower my voice. “I recently read some of Daphne’s work, and he… It seemed like they had kind of a volatile relationship? That he stole parts of her past and used them in his books?”

Blair scoffs.

“What?” I ask. “Is that not true?”

“It’s one truth. But writers do that all the time. It’s called inspiration.”

“Daphne called it an invasion.” I remember that phrase from one of her books: What you call inspiration feels like invasion. “In her poetry, she said it was theft.”

“Yeah, well. Daphne said a lot of things.”

“What does that mean?”

Blair huffs out a frustrated sigh, hand lurching forward to return my phone. “Daphne was… not well. She went through a lot as a kid, so half the time, she pushed all her anger and grief and fears of abandonment onto Morgan and took it out on him. The other half, she’d just trauma-dump. Like he was her therapist, like he was somehow meant to fix it. So when he wrote about it, he was just trying to turn her story into something that ends —because it never ended for Daphne. Which means it never ended for him.”

There’s a name for what Blair’s talking about, a term I recall from a psych class I took in college: secondhand trauma. It means that Daphne’s past rubbed off on Morgan, that in hearing what happened to her, he felt the effects of it himself. Felt, in a way, like it had happened to him. And if that’s true, he might have seen it not as stealing Daphne’s story but as making sense of his own.

“But,” I say, “he made it sound like Daphne only lashed out at him once she saw her past in his work. It seems like he triggered her , more than the other way around. And in Daphne’s poems, she made him seem… hungry for her trauma. Like it fed him as a writer.”

Blair shrugs. “They both had their own perspectives. I’m just telling you what he told me.”

I’m tempted to push it, ask more about Daphne and Morgan, but as much as their marriage remains a mystery to me, it’s not a mystery I’m meant to solve anymore. Not when there’s another that’s much more urgent. More threatening.

“So, the woman Morgan was seeing,” I start. “The cops said she was at his house the night Morgan died. They also said he was drafting an email to a friend, describing what happened between them, presumably after the woman left, but—”

“He was?” The question shoots out of Blair, her eyes wide with longing, desperation. My shoulders sag, only now seeing how sad it is: she never got to read the final message her best friend meant to leave her. Didn’t even know it existed until now.

“Um, yeah.” I keep my voice soft. “But the draft, it—he never finished it. So, what if she came back? The other Rosie. Because the detective made it sound like she and Morgan argued about something, and then the next thing anyone knows, he’s dead.”

I give Blair a moment, watch it sink in. Her gaze drops to the ground, her cheek hollowing as she bites the inside of it. She shakes her head, exhales an angry, airy laugh, and when someone on the lawn shrieks to their friend, “It’s so good to see you,” it feels like they’re interrupting a funeral.

“Jesus,” Blair says, before looking back at me. “And so—what? You think this”—she pops up air quotes—“?‘other Rosie’ is framing you or something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. All I know for sure is what I’ve learned from the detective: there’s someone out there who dyed their hair the same color as mine and used my name with Morgan, all while I was writing to him online. And there’s a witness who says the pink-haired woman she saw with Morgan is not me.”

Blair straightens at that. Scans me up and down. “What else have the police told you? Because they’re not telling me shit.”

I try to think of something I haven’t already shared. “The phone the woman used with Morgan was a burner.”

Blair scuffs out a sound—half laugh, half groan. “Of course it was. I told him from the start that something seemed off about her. That she was a walking red flag. And now…” She bites her lip, shakes her head again. She doesn’t need to say what now is. Now is this gathering. Now is our bloodshot eyes.

“So you believe me?” I ask, noting the pronouns she used: her instead of you . “You believe there’s another Rosie?”

She appraises me awhile, lip still caught between her teeth. “Fuck it,” she finally says. “Maybe? I don’t know. But I need to know what happened to Morgan, and if you are telling the truth, you might be the only one who can identify the woman he was seeing. Morgan didn’t even know the most basic details, like her last name or where she worked. And if she really was impersonating you”—there’s a sarcastic edge to impersonating , like she can’t believe she’s entertaining the theory—“then she’s got to be someone you know, right?”

I’m slow to nod, holding myself stiff to suppress a shiver.

“So here.” Blair pulls her phone from her back pocket, swipes and taps at the screen before handing it over. “Those three emails at the top of the folder are the only ones where he mentions Rosie. We never got a chance to talk about her in person.”

I stare at the screen. “You’re letting me read your emails?”

Blair waves an impatient hand. “This is what you want, too, right? To find out who she is?”

It is. But it’s terrifying, too. I’m on the verge of learning about the woman who already knows so much about me.

My palm trembles beneath the phone, but I grip it tight to steady myself. Taking a breath, I prepare to dive in—just as a group of women burst into laughter a few feet away.

“Wait.” Blair snatches back the phone, her nails scraping me in the process. Her eyes, slitted and suspicious, sweep the crowd. “I hate these people. And I don’t want them to overhear anything they could gossip about later. We should do this somewhere else.”

“Oh—right,” I say. “That makes sense.” I picture us sitting at Sweet Bean instead—there’d be something eerie yet strangely right about reading the emails in the place where Morgan met Other Rosie—but the café is usually closed by now.

I scan the street, thinking of other options, then suck in a breath.

A head of pink hair peers at me from a parked car.

“What?” Blair says.

I squint into the distance to watch the head move. Only it’s not a head anymore. It’s just the sleeve of someone’s coat. As someone jumps in the passenger seat, the driver’s pink elbow peeks out the open window.

“What?” Blair repeats, sharper this time.

“Nothing,” I say. “Sorry. Just—follow me. I know where we can go.”