Chapter 30 #2
Does he know about Sophie? My pulse picks up. I want to sink into the counter behind me, become a part of it. I set my beer down and reflexively rub my face with my free hand as if I can hide it from him—shield any tell—but I act like I’m only doing so out of exhaustion.
“I know a few things, and if I go by what’s purely on the web, I could find a thousand ways to pump enough speculation into every one of those things to make you look like you deserve to be in that sketch. In fact, that’s already being done. But you and I both know that’s not the case.”
“What, that I don’t deserve to be in that sketch?
It’s not the case for me, or for any of the victims, no matter what they’ve done.
” I wince internally, thinking of Coleman’s body hitting the coffee table and falling to the floor.
Hadn’t I thought over and over that he deserved what he got, the reason I took the mum’s-the-word stance?
How is Jeremy so sure I don’t deserve to be in that sketch?
“True. But you have the right to have a cleaner, clearer picture of yourself out there.”
Do I, though? I’ve far from earned it. “You don’t even know if I’m the actual target.”
“That’s honestly beside the point,” he says. “What’s interesting to me and titillating to the rest of the world isn’t whether it’s you or not, but how it feels to be you. How it feels to be someone who’s a dead ringer for the drawing, to be in—no offense—but, you know, in the crosshairs.”
“It feels like shit. There: There’s your scoop.”
This earns me an eye roll.
“Listen,” I say. “You said you don’t think I deserve it, but you don’t know me. You have no idea who or what I am. How do you know I don’t?”
He takes a swig of his beer, his eyes still on mine.
The way he’s studying me makes me feel like no one has really ever looked at me before, like he’s seeing all the bad stuff in me, and maybe an ounce of the good, too.
“Just a hunch. I did a bit of a deep dive on you before I came out. I know about your roommate in college.”
This drives something sharp and hot through my chest.
“In fact,” he says, “I went to school in Missoula, a few years ahead of you, and even after I graduated, I remember hearing about the whole thing with your roommate, Sophie Scott, and that golfer. And you’re right, I also know about you quitting the police force.
Like I said, right now, the people out front are already cooking up ways to twist that a hundred different ways.
Trust me, it’ll be red meat for everyone who wants to smear you and sensationalize this.
If you check your phone right now, you’ll see new stuff already coming out and it’s not even morning yet. ”
I study him back, hoping I display enough dispassion in my eyes to convey that I’m in control, that I’m an investigator, and he is on the other side of who and what I inspect daily.
But he doesn’t shrink or look away because ultimately, as a reporter, he is one, too.
And he’s shamelessly trying to rake up my deepest regrets.
And if I don’t supply them to him, will he find them anyway and expose me whether I give him an interview or not?
And if he’s the killer, maybe even kill me if I don’t confess, not just to him, but to the world.
“What makes you think I care about all the horrible things that people are going to write about me?”
“Crosbie,” he says like he’s known me for a long time. “You’re human, right? Eventually, everyone cares.”
“What I care about more is catching the person who’s playing this cruel game.”
“Right. That’s a given. But you know, the surest way for you to protect yourself would be to come clean about your demons.”
That hits like ice on an exposed nerve. I shift from one foot to the other.
“I thought you said you weren’t interested in those. That you’re interested in my life, who I am, who I’ve been?”
“I am. But we all have demons. Every one of us.”
“Exactly. So that’s what makes this thing so frustrating, because it seems so random. And yet, it can’t be, so there must be a reason I’ve been targeted. And that means there’s a way to find this guy. So no, Mr. Fisher—”
“Jeremy, please.”
“Okay, so no, Jeremy. I’m not spilling my life for you or anyone else. I’m going to find who is doing this. You can print that if you want.”
“And you’ve got the guts for that? For facing down this killer with only the help of that deputy you said you called? The one who still hasn’t shown up?”
I squirm again, shift my stance to hide it. I almost mention the agents to prove it’s not only Zane and me, but I catch myself. That would be sloppy. “If you must know, I knew I could handle you by myself.” I hold up the gun and squeeze its grip, attempting to appear more confident than I feel.
“Fair,” he says. “But in case it’s not clear, what I’m saying is that you ought to confess something—hopefully the right thing—and I think it should be through an interview with me. I think that’s what will save you from this killer.”
My breathing goes shallow. I hope to God he doesn’t notice my chest rising and falling. And if you are the killer, how special, you get my confession face-to-face.
The silence between us feels strange and intimate, like he’s pinpointed something deep and personal about me. But he hasn’t, has he?
I take a sip of beer to hide my unease. As I lower it back down, my phone trills.
“Your deputy?” says Jeremy.
“In fact, yes.” I exhale—maybe a little too loudly.
Deputy Zane is agitated. He tells me there is a man at his checkpoint who insists he’s a friend, harmless, and known to me. “Wallace Scott,” says Zane.
Wallace. Why would he come over so late? Does he have something important to tell me, something that’s going to make this awful day even worse? Either way, I’m grateful he’s here.
Because Jeremy is making me more and more anxious. And I can’t help but wonder if that’s his intention.