Chapter Twenty-eight
After the Dawsons leave, Bill pulls me into his office. He sits, but I stand. I can’t help feeling like a schoolgirl who’s been brought before the principal.
Bill steeples his fingers in front of his lips and leans back in his chair, surveying me. ‘You cremated Zoe’s foot and moved the ashes into the urn, correct?’
‘Yes. Devin showed me how. I picked the urn and put the ashes inside. Then I labeled the urn and left it in the storage area.’
‘Is it possible that you didn’t put the ashes in the urn?’ Bill asks with a pointed look.
‘What? No.’
‘I understand you cared about Zoe. Is it possible that you’re misremembering, and you took them home? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I know how attached people can get to their loved ones’ remains.’
I shake my head vehemently, but he continues in a soothing tone.
‘It would be the most natural thing in the world for you to want to keep them—’
‘No!’ I snap, because I am exhausted, and being accused of theft is not how I envisioned the memorial ending.
Then, I take a deep breath. ‘Sorry for raising my voice, Bill – but no. I most definitely put the ashes in the urn on Monday. I didn’t even see the urn again until Wednesday, when someone had moved it into the parlor. ’
‘I moved it,’ he says. ‘First thing this morning.’
‘Did you check inside when you moved it?’ I ask, because hey, maybe Bill took them. No idea why he’d do that, but I’m no stranger to male gaslighting.
‘No,’ he says with a rueful tone. ‘I didn’t check. It did feel a bit light, but I figured you’d put the ashes from her foot in the urn and left the rest in the bag.’
‘That’s exactly what I did. Devin said he was adding the bag of ashes from the beach later.’
We both stare at each other.
‘Why would someone steal her ashes?’ he finally says, his gaze still fixed on me, but his tone softer.
‘I literally have no idea.’
Of course a trophy comes to mind – a piece of her for her killer to keep. But whoever killed her had plenty of chances to set aside some kind of trophy before discarding her foot. I mean, to state the obvious, he could have kept all the ashes he wanted before dumping the rest on the beach.
Bill sighs and leans back in his chair, drawing his hands up and down over his face. ‘Maybe it was some kind of mistake. Things happen. I’ll talk to Devin and Elsie. Still, this isn’t a good look for a professional funeral home.’
A stabbing sensation at my temple announces the start of a headache. This day has been too much. The memorial was always going to be a lot, but realizing Zoe’s parents are nothing like what she painted them – learning Liam is a PI – now the ashes disappearing—
‘Well, if that’s it,’ I say, ‘I’m going to head out.’
‘All right. Good luck, Margot. Today can’t have been easy.’
‘It wasn’t. Thanks.’
At the front door, I step from the dry chill of the air conditioning into the sticky heat of the day.
It’s two p.m., it’s ninety freaking degrees and a rumble in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten.
But despite my promises to George about self-care, there are much more pressing things to do. Namely, Liam. I shoot off a text.
Hey, we need to talk
I wait a minute, maybe more, staring at the screen like the power of my stare will draw forth a response.
Nothing. I blast off three more texts in quick succession.
Liam?
You there?
Please answer
I count to ten in my head. I realize I’m clenching my jaw and purposely relax it.
OK. I could go home. Wait for him to respond. That would make sense, right? Grab a bite to eat, take a shower, change clothes. Give myself a minute to recover. Yes, that makes sense.
I open the Uber app. But when I type in the address, it’s not mine I’m typing in. I hit Request Ride before I can second guess myself.
Because screw it. I have to get to him. I can’t wait. I’ll stake out his apartment if necessary.
Liam Porter is a professional investigator. He was looking for Zoe. I need him to tell me everything he knows. He’s been on the case for longer than I have. Maybe he can help me find her killer. Maybe I don’t have to do it alone.
My Uber pulls up within minutes. As we speed along, I stare out the window, scenes from the morning flashing through my head. The smother of guests. The odor of the flowers. Tim’s account of how Zoe brought Child Protective Services to their door.
Then, the complete shift about Liam, casting everything in a new light. My judgment didn’t suck. My instincts weren’t shit. My boyfriend, which I guess he still is since we technically didn’t break up, is innocent. I should be jubilant.
Instead, I feel like I’m about to explode into a million pieces.
To steady myself, I pull out my phone and doomscroll for a while. Then I remember the video Colby AirDropped. I pull it up and press play.
Immediately the screen is a chaos of color and blurry movement. Then the audio comes through, crystal clear – Zoe’s voice.
‘Shame on you! Shame on you for being haters! What’s wrong with you people? Nothing better to do than prey on the vulnerable? You know what? Fuck all of you! This is going on TikTok, and I’m tagging every single one of you women-hating assholes!’
I bite back tears. Obviously the video isn’t pleasant or nice. But Zoe – her energy is palpable. Like she’s right here.
Indistinct cries of ‘Baby killers!’ and ‘God will judge you!’ come from the background, and then the camera starts panning the faces of the actual protestors.
Zoe’s voice comes through again. ‘Every one of your faces is going on the fucking internet! You’re gonna be celebrities! Congratulations!’
It flashes past face after face – oh my God. Was that …?
I pause the video and drag it back. Then, I pause it again on one of the protesters. She wears a reddened grimace on her face and holds a sign that reads, Murderers! Burn in hell!
‘Fuck,’ I whisper with a laugh, or a sob, because I know this woman. It’s Kayleigh Aimes. Plushie maker. Pro-lifer. She did meet Zoe. Or at least, they were in a brief shouting match. The proof is right in my hands.
It’s like everything comes into focus all at once. The painting Life may be about Colby – but it’s also about Kayleigh, the shadowy figure throttling her. And the serial killer’s first victim.
If Life is about Kayleigh and Skin is about Crystal …
I try to unpick the timeline. Kayleigh went missing eighteen months ago.
Crystal, twelve months ago. Simon accepted Kayleigh’s painting into the gallery over a year ago.
Who knows when Zoe completed the second painting, but definitely before she disappeared.
Perhaps she’d just finished it when she was kidnapped and her studio ransacked.
Zoe could have painted these shortly after each of the women went missing.
Perhaps she was raising awareness about the rise in violence against women?
Is that why she was targeted? Or was she making some political commentary that pissed the wrong person off?
I bite my lip. In the end, she didn’t finish the series. There were supposed to be four paintings. Did the killer have a reason to shut it down?
The Uber driver pulls up in front of Liam’s building. I jump out, forcing myself to switch gears.
I buzz his unit.
And then, an answering buzz comes. The door unlocks and I push inside.
All the tension that’s been building since I first met Liam is coiled within me, propelling me up the stairs. I take them two by two.
I get to Liam’s floor and stop, breathing heavily from the effort.
He’s there standing in the door, waiting for me, still in his nice pants from the memorial, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up.
Last time I saw him, I publicly accused him of being a murderer. For all I know, he’s pissed as hell.
‘You lied to me,’ I heave out. ‘You’re a PI.’