Chapter 15
Two red-eyes and the night of no sleep in Dallas have caught up with me.
I’m not sure when or for how long I dozed off, but when the doorbell rings, I stand so fast, I feel lightheaded and forget for a moment where I am.
I look out the kitchen window to see the light diffusing into pale pastels above the mountains.
Shades of gray tunnel through the forest on the edge of my yard.
Dismissing the thought of slipping into the bedroom for my gun—assassins aren’t likely to ring your doorbell, Cros—I go to the door, wondering if it’s a UPS or FedEx delivery.
Through the glass on the door, I see a tall Black man with an erect posture that screams official and a white woman with short reddish-orange hair stand waiting. The guy wears a blue button-up shirt, the woman a black blazer. Both are in jeans.
FBI. But not from the office in Kalispell. I know the agents there.
Detective Ewing. The thought is instantaneous. He relayed my story about the earrings. It’s the only reason two special agents from out of town would fly in.
When I open the door, the woman pulls a badge from her inside pocket and flips it open, revealing an FBI shield with an ID. “Crosbie Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Greene, and this is Special Agent Alderson.
” Alderson flashes a smile, but Greene doesn’t alter her expression.
I perfected the same neutral gaze. Women in the business hone the poker face, clear and blank.
Not warm, not incriminating, not cold, but not bitchy or conceited.
“So quick,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” Alderson says.
“I didn’t think Ewing would notify you that fast,” I clarify. “But I’m very happy he did.”
“We took the first flight from Salt Lake, the local team provided a vehicle, and here we are, all in record time.” He announces this like he wants a Cub Scout pin for the effort, but it’s not obnoxious. There’s something calming and uncomplicated about his manner.
I’m feeling relieved at their arrival. I’m not gonna lie—even though I’m not entirely convinced it’s me—the looks I got at lunch freaked me out a little.
“Can’t say it wasn’t a little hectic,” he says. “That little airport sure is crazy.”
“Yeah, we’re on the map thanks to Glacier.”
“Your place isn’t far from the airport, though. That was a pleasant surprise.”
“It’s convenient,” I agree.
I usher them into the nook beside the kitchen.
I’m suddenly conscious of my bright T-shirt with the minuscule flecks of blood.
I wished I had changed it, even though the spots are too small for others to notice.
I offer drinks but they decline. My ice water—now just water—and phone are still on the table, and they leave that spot for me.
After the preliminaries, Greene asks to see the earrings.
“I want to see them again, too,” I say. “I flew in today. From Dallas. And the first thing I did was look everywhere and I came up empty.”
They both look at each other, some secret communication—the connection I’d always hoped to have with a partner on the force if I’d stuck with it.
“You can talk with the guy who gave them to me. Wallace Scott. He went with me when we filed the report and spoke to Detective Ewing.”
“I see,” Greene says. “Your significant other?”
“At one point. We’re friends now.” Something about my quick declaration sets off a twinge of unease in me, like I’m just as coldhearted as I was when I broke up with him or, yesterday in the bar, when I thought negatively about his piano playing, like I’m somehow trying to dismiss him.
But that’s ridiculous, I scold myself. I’m just stating the truth.
“Have you checked everywhere?”
“I turned the house upside down.”
“When was the last time you wore them?” Greene asks.
I wonder if she’s on a level playing field with the men of the FBI.
“I’ve asked myself the same question. Maybe out to dinner with Wallace.
” I squint, thinking. Over the holidays we went out several times: to the local high-end golf club restaurant, to a nice place near the ski resort, to a bougie new place on the outskirts of town.
“I usually only wore them when I was around him. And that was months ago. We broke up last winter, in February.”
“Have you searched your car?”
“I don’t think they’d be in my car.”
“Do you have a place where you keep valuables? A safe?”
“Nothing hardly worth stealing,” I say, “but I do have a safe for my gun and a few documents. Already checked.”
We agree that we’ll all spend a few minutes looking around the house when we’re done talking, and I welcome the idea. I’m sure my searching skills are hampered by the anxiety of it all.
Then, a more thorough rundown. Greene and Alderson fall into a steady, even approach that demonstrates they’ve put thought into how they would organize my interview.
Their work is admirable, and I fall into a kind of easy trance, answering their questions as best I can.
Family. Schools. Friends. Hobbies. Church.
Community groups. How long I’ve been a PI.
How long I was a cop. Why did I quit. On that last point, I nonchalantly—and ironically, given my new set of circumstances—tell them I was after something safer.
Also on that last point, I fudge. I only tell them that, in the end, it “wasn’t a good fit for my personality.”
If they’re good at their jobs, they’ve already dug up some background on my time on the force and how it might have contributed to my departure, but I see no reason to dredge up my history unless it pertains to the Confession Artist. And I’m not convinced that it does, even if this whole thing does hit—well, kick the living hell out of—some major nerves in me.
“Any reason you can think of that you’d be the next target? Anything unusual or odd happen to you lately?”
“No. This is the most unusual thing that’s ever occurred.”
“Has anyone threatened you in other ways, or have you made any enemies?”
“No,” I repeat.
Greene glances at Alderson. I know what the look means. She’s questioning why my answer was so final, so sure, when most people might stumble, say, Uh, I’m not sure. I don’t think I have any.
I almost add “not lately,” thinking of the threats during the backlash, but I can’t go there. It’d be like unwrapping fish that’s gotten too warm in the sun.
“I don’t mean to sound so emphatic, but I’ve been pondering that question, you know, ever since.”
“Anything you feel the need to confess, as he’s demanding?” Alderson echoes.
“No,” I lie. “I mean, we all have little things, right? It’s not like I’m going to worry about every tiny thing I’ve done wrong in my life up to this point, every should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.”
“Is there a significant should’ve?” Greene angles her head to the side, innocently, but there’s something artificial in the gesture, as if she knows every personal thing about me.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Whatever comes to mind for you,” Alderson says.
The nonchalance of his statement somehow ramps up how acutely awful I already feel about the things I’m not telling them, the things I won’t tell them.
Like he’s just being polite even though he sees right through me.
But it’s probably all in my head. “Are you seeing patterns from the other victims?” I ask instead.
“Stuff from their lives they should have confessed?”
I can tell they’re getting annoyed that I’m answering questions with questions when they’re here to help me and find the perp, but still, if I’m the next intended victim, I need answers as much as they do.
“Ms. Mitchell,” Greene says, “we’re looking into the possibility that this is a type of proclamation killer. Do you know what that means?”
I do. It means manifesto. Cause. Someone who’s bought into a conspiracy, either of their own making or of some greater movement, or someone who’s arrived at a breaking point.
The light in the room teeters on twilight.
The whole situation feels surreal, like the three of us might dissolve away with the evening itself.
I should turn on a light, but I’m frozen in place.
To have these two badass-looking agents working a high-profile case, making everything even more official, gets under my skin.
I’m relieved they’re taking it seriously, but I’m also unnerved.
They both stare at me. Greene’s pale skin looks ghostly.
“Are these earrings your first real lead?” I ask.
Another glimpse from Alderson to Greene. I want to shout, What? Tell me. I’m the target here, not you.
Greene flicks her head, giving him the go-ahead.
“As of now,” he says, “we’ve got little to go on.
No witnesses to any of the crimes, no physical evidence that we can match to anyone in our databases, no motive beyond that he or she has some bone to pick with the targets, and perhaps society in general, and perhaps wants us all to become a little more socially conscious about our actions. ”
“A little more socially conscious? And if we’re not, they kill people. That’s a good dose of hypocrisy.”
“There’s not always a lot of logic in aggression,” Greene says. “People think rage is always out of control, but sometimes it’s controlled.”
“As I was saying,” Alderson jumps back in.
“It seems he might be stalking his targets in the lead-up to the killings, but we’re not sure how or why he’s picked his victims. We’ve put together lists of people the victims were in contact with in the last year to see if there’s a common name that pops up, but there’s nothing.
If it’s okay with you, we’d also like to access your phone and computer data. ”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “My clients come to me expecting confidentiality.”
Greene sighs, as if she was anticipating that answer.
Alderson looks at her before continuing. “We’ve scoured surveillance footage around the places the first ones were struck. We’ve got analysts building models of their last days, looking for patterns and connections.”
“What about an IP address?”