Chapter 28
The living room feels smaller with Detective Yankovic in it.
At well over six feet tall, he’s perched on the edge of my sofa, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid hitting the coffee table with his notebook balanced on his knee.
The light slants through the blinds, striping the wall and catching on dust I haven’t had a chance to clean.
Okay, that’s not true. Since most of my clients have cancelled their lessons I have plenty of time, just not the motivation.
My couch smells faintly of Zoomie mixed with Stew’s cologne, which I dab on myself when I’m feeling especially lonely. Since Ivory’s disappearance I’ve gone through almost a quarter of the bottle. A throw blanket with a huge photo of Me, Stew, and Zoomie is folded neatly over the arm.
“I need to explain some things,” I tell the detective, rubbing my damp palms on my jeans, “before I show you this.”
Yankovic’s gaze lifts from the notebook. He’s patient in a way that isn’t comforting. “You’ve already shown me a lot, Ms. Catalano.”
“I know. But this is different.”
I cross the room and grab my laptop. The pen drive is still plugged into the side of it, a little black rectangle jutting out.
My attorney’s warning echoes in my head, to only share this if I had to, and only with someone I trust. I’m not sure Yankovic qualifies, but I’m desperate and it’s too late to stop now anyway.
Sitting beside him, I flip the laptop open.
The fan whirs to life while I debate just how much to tell the detective, and where to begin.
I have no idea what detail he’ll latch on to, or what he’ll do with it.
I won’t be shocked if he digs into my past to verify what I’m about to tell him, but I cannot let him dig into my present to find out what I’m hiding.
“These files came from my attorney. He hired a private investigator to look into a man named Ramsey Shenk and his girlfriend Gillian.”
Yankovic doesn’t interrupt as I click on the folder icon.
Several images pop onto the screen. A woman with white-blonde hair and sharp cheekbones stares off-camera.
In the first photo she’s stepping out of a grocery store, keys in hand.
In another, she’s sitting at an outdoor café, sunglasses pushed into her hair.
In all of them she looks unaware of being watched and completely unbothered by what her boyfriend did to my life.
“The woman in these pictures is Gillian,” I clarify. “Ramsey Shenk’s significant other.”
“Ramsey Shenk… Why do I know that name?” Detective Yankovic asks.
“He was the owner of In the Margins Media and drowned in a boat fire last year.”
“Oh, I recall seeing that on the news. They never found his body, right? He seemed like a shady guy.”
“Shady is an understatement.” I click through more photos. Different angles on different days, all of them capturing the same woman.
“What does any of this have to do with your hit-and-run?” the detective asks.
“Here’s where it gets a little complicated.
Four years ago my husband found evidence of Ramsey stealing money from his company.
When my husband was about to go public with it, Ramsey murdered him and made it look like a hunting accident.
But when he found out I had evidence that could convict him of murder, he framed me for the larceny.
Everyone bought it, and I even did jail time for a crime I didn’t commit. ”
“Do you have any evidence to prove what you’re saying?”
“Well,” I lengthen the word to buy myself time to explain, “my husband put the embezzlement evidence in a safe deposit box, but the key to it was stolen along with an SD card that had trail cam footage showing Ramsey Shenk committing murder.”
The process of getting a duplicate safe deposit key ended up becoming much more difficult than I anticipated when the original owner is dead.
Since Stewart Dobson’s name is the registered owner, the bank gave me a dozen hoops to jump through just to get a new key.
Getting the certified death certificate along with a court-ordered probate takes time that I don’t have, because whoever has the key could already be figuring out a way to get access before I can.
Especially if that someone has access to Ramsey’s money and network. Someone like Gillian.
“So that’s a no. You can’t prove this story you’re telling me,” he concludes.
“What Ramsey did to my family isn’t what I want to show you. It’s what his girlfriend Gillian is currently doing that’s relevant. When Ramsey died in the boat fire last year, the world thought it was the end of him.”
I glance up at him. He’s watching me closely, like I’m sharing state secrets.
“But your attorney apparently didn’t,” Yankovic concludes for me.
“Right. Because there was no body and no credible witness to his death,” I explain. “Anyway, my attorney hired a PI to follow Gillian when she drained her bank account and suddenly showed up in Doomwood Falls.” I gesture vaguely at the window and the town beyond it.
“What’s the logic for why she would come here?” he asks.
“I think it’s twofold. First, my attorney thinks Ramsey’s still alive and hiding out somewhere.
And I think Gillian is here to get the evidence I have—had—against Ramsey that proves he murdered my husband.
If Ramsey’s going to make a miraculous comeback, he needs a clean slate.
And the best way to get a clean slate is to get rid of me. ”
“You think Gillian came to Doomwood Falls to kill you.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past that family,” I answer.
“Is that why you came here to Doomwood Falls—to disappear?” he asks me.
I shrug. “Yeah, to start over. This town was supposed to be my phoenix moment. Rising from the ashes of losing my husband. Or so I thought.”
The truth is that Doomwood Falls is a lot more than my phoenix moment. This small river-adjacent town nestled in the foothills of the mountains is also my chance for revenge.
“There’s one more thing I need to show you.”
I get up from the sofa and detour to the dining room where several photos are splayed across the table.
Most are extra copies I had re-developed from the negatives I had taken.
I pick up two pictures and bring them to Detective Yankovic, then hand them to him.
The top photo is of the clothing at the waterfall.
Pointing at the water’s reflection of the letter Z stitched onto the neon sweatshirt, I say, “This is who I think might be behind the hit-and-run.”
“I don’t understand. What does this shirt have to do with anything?”
“This might help clear it up.”
I flip to the next picture. This photo was taken during a group photography class when we were working on individual portraits, and the woman smiling at the camera is Zala.
She has the same platinum hair as the woman in the private investigator’s candid photos.
Same cheekbone structure. The striking resemblance can’t be coincidence.
“This is one of my students,” I say. “Zala, spelled with a Z. But I don’t remember her last name. It was… exotic. Hard to pronounce. And she doesn’t list it on Facebook. But look at her—the hair, the cheekbones, the eye shape. I think Zala is Gillian.”
I angle the screen toward him, then position the images side by side. Gillian. Zala. Gillian. Zala.
Yankovic frowns. “Coincidence,” he says immediately.
“No,” I insist, “this looks like the same woman. Gillian is here in Doomwood Falls, and she’s hiding behind a different name and living on my street.
It’s the perfect way to get close enough to me to carry out everything that’s happened.
I’ve been stalked, threatened, had a break-in, stolen from, and hit with a car!
The person behind it is close to enough to watch my every move. It has to be her!”
The room feels too quiet after that. Yankovic straightens and his face hardens, all patience evaporating at once.
“That’s enough.” His tone has sharpened. “You’re making crazy assumptions that bare no truth, Ms. Catalano.”
I blink. “What?”
“That Z is a reflection off the water, which means it’s actually a backwards S, not a Z.”
I hadn’t considered that before now, but Zala’s last name could very well start with an S. I have no idea, but it doesn’t mean it’s not her. The resemblance alone is enough…
“So you’re saying these two women don’t look alike?”
His jaw twitches. “From this grainy photo that PI took, sure, they appear to share features, but lots of people do. People constantly mistake me for Jason Momoa, but that doesn’t make us twins.”
My eyebrow involuntarily bolts up. Detective Yankovic looks as similar to the Aquaman actor as I do Margot Robbie.
“This is more than sharing features. They’re, like, doppelgangers.”
“You need to stop this,” he barks. “You are spiraling and accusing innocent people without any proof.”
“Gillian is not innocent—”
“But Zala is!” he cuts in. “And you’re crossing a line. Zala is not Gillian. She’s not terrorizing you. And you need to stop playing detective before you ruin someone’s life. Or your own.”
Heat floods my chest. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I am listening, but I’ve heard enough.” He rises to his feet so abruptly that the sofa legs scrape against the floor. “And I’m telling you to back off. If you don’t stop right now, I’ll throw you in jail myself for obstruction of justice!”
He leaves, and the moment the door slams shut, I break down and cry. I fall into the sofa and rest my head on a throw pillow, letting out a long, shaky sob. Then I wrap myself in the blanket with Stew’s picture next to my heart, while wiping my tears with Zoomie’s face. Maybe this is the end of it.
My phone buzzes next to the laptop where Gillian’s face still fills the screen.
My auto-response to any communication is panic, but I try to convince myself it’s probably a spam text.
Or one of those cheerful alerts from my bank informing me that my balance is low, as if I don’t already know.
I pick up my phone and see a text bubble from an unknown number.
And the message is only four words and a link.