30
ANSON
Twill was a bit of an artist. I could think of no other way to describe the way she moved.
She passed through the crowds of tourists with the fluidity of water.
Unnoticed. Invisible. During our short walk, she swiped at least two more wallets, quickly rifled through the contents, and discarded what she didn’t want, all without missing a step.
Nobody noticed. Nobody had a clue. She’d cleaned herself up, too.
Gone were the filthy skirt and tank top, replaced with a clingy teal shirt and white shorts.
She wore just the hint of makeup, and her blond hair bounced lazily off her tanned shoulders.
She had this carefree look about her. A pretty teenage girl strolling the streets of Charleston. Only her eyes betrayed her.
I’d fallen several steps behind her, and when she turned and glanced at me, I saw it.
A look I knew. One I had seen in Mother’s face many times.
Never in Father’s; he was too good at hiding it, but I saw it in mine.
I sometimes recognized it in others. Twill was on a hunt.
She was an animal with a scent. Any successful predator knew how to hide, how to blend.
Camouflage. Twill smiled. She studied the historical buildings as if seeing them for the first time, even though she probably had every line memorized by now.
Behind that mask, her mind was churning.
She was working a problem. She was puzzling it out.
I realized something else, too. She wasn’t taking me to the place where Andy had vanished because she wanted to see it for herself, or even because she wanted me to see it.
I was pretty sure she had already been there today.
She was taking me because she wanted to see me see it.
She was hoping I’d notice something she hadn’t.
Thinking that, knowing that, made me think of the memorial wall and all that red string.
Had she somehow seen me do that and not said anything?
Was that why I was here?
The string had ended with Emily.
Andy came after.
Pieces.
Parts.
She wanted me to connect them because she hadn’t been able to. She knew about the holes in the back of their heads, but that wasn’t enough to make sense of what was happening. If it were, she wouldn’t need me.
Twill stopped so abruptly I nearly ran into her back.
Without turning, she said flatly, “I slept with Vincent. More than once. I think you should know that.”
Although she wasn’t looking at me, my face flushed. Silly to be embarrassed by such a bold statement, but there it was. This news wasn’t even a surprise; on some level, I already knew. It clicked back at the morgue. I’m not sure why it even mattered. I wasn’t sure why she was telling me now.
Twill turned and faced me. “It didn’t mean anything. It just happened.”
And there it was. The spark of a lie behind her green eyes. It had meant something, at least to her.
Her gaze dropped to the ground. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to help him find . . .”
She let the sentence linger until I said Kristina’s name. Like she didn’t know it or remember it.
“Kristina, right.”
Only, that was a lie too. She knew Kristina’s name. Lies, even omissions, they create these subtle changes in the facial muscles, body movements. One of my earliest lessons with Father had been how to spot those tells. I knew Twill was lying; what I didn’t understand was why.
There was a bottle cap on the sidewalk, and she nudged it with the tip of her white tennis shoe.
“I understand why he’d want to find her.
Why all of you would want to find them. You lost someone too, right?
They’re your friends. You want to do right by them.
Well, Emily, Andy, and the others were my friends . . .”
She let that last sentence linger like it was some sort of explanation, and I suppose it was. But it felt like a half-truth. Like she was holding something back. She continued down the sidewalk without further explanation, and I went after her.