Chapter 8
After Jess finishes her speech, I leave her with a throng of fans and some other conference colleagues, figuring she needs the moment with her admirers, without me.
Thrilled that the presentation went well for her, I find a cluster of comfy chairs to settle into in the corner of an atrium bar on the second level of the convention center–slash–mega hotel.
I take out my phone. More texts from Fiona to call her. And two other college buddies in addition to John—Maggie and Hannah—who, like John, don’t even live in my town, asking if the sketch could be me.
My pulse thrums. Shit, do that many people think I look like this person, or is it spreading like wildfire among my circle because one of them—most likely Fiona—put the word out?
Fiona was the biggest social media queen out of all of us in college.
Maggie, John, Hannah, and I hardly ever posted in comparison.
Whenever we had a great group photo and someone would suggest posting it, John or Hannah would say, “Fiona will do it.”
Fiona came from my hometown of Kalispell and went to my high school, and later to the same university.
She was the one who loved the most to feed the slush pile of gossip back in high school and college.
She was one of those friends you were never sure you completely trusted but kept in your life anyway because she was still fun and exciting and always up for doing something even if everyone else was bailing on you.
Only, for me, it wasn’t because I was worried people would bail. It was the reverse. I counted on her to keep me from becoming a hermit, especially after Sophie was gone and my mom passed three years later.
Fiona was always on the sidelines in one way or another. Sure, it was usually superficial interaction, but she was still a buoy of sorts.
The therapist I saw briefly after my mom passed—an older woman with a long, severe face and crisply bobbed hair who worked for the health center’s counseling services—pointed out that I had a loner streak.
She wanted to know when it started. I told her it began after my dad passed away when I was in seventh grade and Jess in fourth, when I knew I needed to buck up and be strong for Jess and for my mom.
But that I overcame it in high school, with Fiona’s help then, too, I might add.
But it’s been flaring up again since Jess’s backsliding. It’s not depression, like Jess is prone to; it’s just a desire to be alone, to pull into myself, to not be seen and be anonymous. But mostly, to be 100 percent available for Jess and Sam when they need me.
I scroll through my photos, but I’m smiling in most of them. Those don’t work for comparisons. I sit back in my chair, fluff my hair in front of my shoulders, and arrange it to expose my ears. Feeling sheepish, I hold up my phone, stare broodingly into the lens, and snap a mug shot selfie.
I’m wearing cubic zirconia studs, not the ones Wallace gave me. I rarely wear those since we’ve broken up. Not only does it feel a little hinky, but the truth is that I don’t like them all that much, even though they are fun and sentimental.
When he gave them to me, he told me he knew they weren’t entirely my style and that they were a little kitschy, a little “gift-shoppy,” but thought they were apropos since we had done some hiking and camping in the mountains.
He had wanted to get something earthy, something Western.
And the Montana sapphires spoke for themselves with their beautiful cornflower-blue hues.
It wasn’t the gems I didn’t love. It’s just that I’m a detective.
I go for simple, and these seemed just a little extra.
But a pang of remorse and sadness pings through me.
They represent what could have been between Wallace and me.
They represent hope and some fun, the promise of new beginnings.
A phoenix rising from the ashes of the wreckage Sophie’s death brought to all our lives.
A way for me to move on from the guilt over what happened to her so I could expand and flap my wings more freely.
Because if Sophie’s own brother forgave me, surely I could forgive myself.
The noise picks up around me, catching my attention. More people have trickled into the atrium lounge—conference goers wanting space away from the crowds, or maybe they’re nabbing seats before the restaurants fill up for lunch.
A bartender has appeared behind the wood bar and is taking an order from a man who doesn’t look like he belongs at CrimeCon.
He has the attire and physique of a rock climber.
Backpack, disheveled hair, shaggier version of Russell Crowe’s gladiator beard, khaki shorts with a bleach-stain spot on one pocket, and a laid-back expression that says he couldn’t care less about the whole scene.
The exact opposite of Wallace. Maybe early to mid-thirties, probably a few years older than me.
If I weren’t so anxious, I’d lust after a guy like him, all windswept and relaxed. Calloused hands from grabbing rocks attached to actual earth instead of pale, slender ones perfectly manicured for creating ephemeral tones on piano keys that leave me feeling hollowed out.
The thought instantly shocks me—the bitchiness of it. Given how Wallace’s music was the very thing that drew me to him in the first place. I ask myself, When did this unkindness kick in? Is this what guilt does to a person, turns them into more of an asshole?
My phone vibrates, pulling me back. Jess. Already?
“Cros? Where are you? I can’t believe this is happening.” Her voice is high-pitched and strained.
“What’s happening?”
“One of my fans who came up to talk to me saw you with me earlier and they asked how I knew the target in the sketch. I can’t believe it. I told you. I told you it was you.”
“Calm down. There’s no reason to get upset. One person seeing that resemblance here doesn’t mean anything.” I try not to think about the others in line for coffee.
“No reason? How can you say that?”
“Think about it. There are probably hundreds of people around the country having this exact same conversation right now.”
“The earrings, Cros. Did you see those?”
“Yes, I have, but—”
“But nothing. How do you explain them? I didn’t notice them last night, but when I studied the sketch again now . . . I just can’t be—”
“They aren’t uncommon. They’re probably sold on .”
I take her silence as a good sign. Either she doesn’t know or doesn’t remember they were handcrafted by one of Wallace’s friends.
“Listen,” I continue. “You’ve said yourself I look like Jennifer Garner.
I’m not saying it’s her, either. I’m just saying there are a lot of women who resemble other people.
We’ve claimed for years that Fiona looks like a blond Sandra Bullock.
People have doppelg?ngers, and Jess, we live in the frigging Flathead Valley.
Do you really think someone’s coming for me out there, at the ass end of nowhere? And for what possible reason?”
“It’s not like Montana hasn’t been discovered,” she mumbles. “But maybe you’re right.”
More progress.
Except she follows with, “We should have never come here. I can’t believe this is hap—” Her voice breaks. I suddenly feel horrible for leaving her there with her fans.
“Hey,” I say. “You were great. You feel good about it?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You should. You were terrific.”
She heaves a sigh. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have stood there like an idiot for God knows how long.” She asks me where I am and tells me to stay put, tells me she’ll come my way as soon as she meets with one of the conference organizers for a minute.
I look back at my fantasy rock-climber guy.
He has a handsome, slightly weathered face to accompany his sinewy arms and legs.
If the world were a perfect place, I could fantasize about meeting a guy like him here in Dallas, picture the sheets a mess and a bottle of champagne. But my world is very far from perfect.
He scans the place.
And heads right toward me.
I go on high alert.
He sits down a few seats away, as if he hasn’t even seen me at all, and digs through his backpack frantically. What’s he searching for? My heart hammers against my sternum.
Even if he is the perp, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t draw a gun in the middle of a crowded hotel—logic lost on my body as every muscle goes as rigid as steel cable.
Finally, he pulls out a phone.
I close my eyes and take a very long and quiet exhale. What is my deal? I shake it off and turn my attention back to the selfie I took and the drawing.
Since the sketch is in black and white, I can’t make out the color of the eyes or the gems in the earrings.
The shading makes it seem like the woman has dark hair, like mine, but I can’t be positive.
Additional texture has been applied to her cheeks, suggesting a natural blush or perhaps a darker complexion, both of which I have.
But besides the earrings, my photo is pouty and sheepish. It’s missing the hardness in the sketched woman’s eyes. Or is it bitterness? Maybe guilt?
There’s an unattractive anger depicted in the drawing, in the rigidness of her face. She looks pissed. Like she’s telling everyone to fuck off.
Is that me?
Looking in the mirror my entire life, have I only seen what I want to see?
Have I even spotted this angry of a look on myself, the one captured in the sketch?
Part of me would like to think it can’t possibly be me because of this very aspect.
And if it is, well, the Confession Artist is getting it wrong.
My face isn’t so obviously showing what I know has been going on inside me all year. It’s not this irritated.
But deep down, I know it is.