Chapter 4 #2
I place the phone on the table and slide it across. She reads without giving me a reassuring expression she can't mean, then asks when it arrived and whether I recognize the number.
I tell her about my first thought of Lincoln, including what happened at the display and how little that tells us about this message. She writes his name down. I give her his contact details, feeling sick at the possibility I'm accusing an unpleasant ex of something far worse than being unpleasant.
“It's a thought I had,” I say. “I don't know who sent it.”
“That's clear.” Alison brings the phone closer. “Show me the recording.”
This time I let it play from the beginning.
Peggy's sales pitch sounds painfully cheerful in the quiet workshop. When Beatrice comes into view, I keep my hands under the table so I won't stop the video again. Alison watches it through, then returns to the moment by the doorway.
“Did he speak to either of you?”
We both say no.
“Did you see either of them come back?”
“I didn't.” I draw a loose thread from the seam of my jeans. “I wasn't watching that door all night. I went to the bar afterward. Then I spent some time with someone.”
Alison looks up. “Who?”
“A man I met there. I don't know his name.”
There should be a funny way to say that. Peggy would usually supply three before I finished. She stays quiet while I explain where we went and what I can remember about when I returned.
“He wore a dark suit,” I tell her. “His mask only covered the top of his face. Painted cracks, ribbons at the back. It looked expensive.”
She returns to the worker on the screen. I see the difference immediately. The stranger's mask left his mouth visible. This one gives its wearer a whole new mouth, fixed in a wide row of plastic teeth.
“We sell that one,” I say.
Alison waits as I get up.
The masks are in a shallow drawer under the display shelves. I pull it open and take out a sealed packet, keeping it by the edges. The printed cardboard header bends under my fingers. Through the clear wrapping, a skull stares up between a price label and a warning to keep it away from flames.
I put it beside the phone.
Peggy makes a small sound.
The teeth and the ridges above the eyes match the image on my phone. In the unopened packet, the elastic lies neatly folded behind the face.
“Twelve dollars,” I tell Alison. “Anybody can buy it. We order them by the box.”
She asks for the supplier's details, and Peggy finds the invoice. Alison photographs the packet and its label. There's nothing special about ours. I tell her I've seen the same design on stands selling cheap decorations, far outside our neighborhood.
I wish I'd seen a scar, a tattoo, anything that belonged to the person underneath.
I take the phone and return to Beatrice's step through the doorway.
There's a spot of blue above her right ear.
I turn the screen toward Alison.
“The hair comb. I lent her that. It's blue crystal.” My fingers go to my own hair to show where I put it. “Was it with her?”
Alison looks at the enlarged image.
“It isn't among the items recovered so far.”
I pull my hand from my hair. My scalp aches where my fingers were digging in.
She asks whether I have a clearer photograph.
I find the one we used for our accessory listing and send it to her.
In that picture the comb rests on white tissue, with every little stone catching the light.
I'd taken it beside this window on an afternoon when all I cared about was whether the blue looked right.
“I'm not asking to get it back,” I say.
Alison's expression softens. “I understand.”
I look at the return slip, then turn it over.
Alison arranges the transfer of the full recording while we're at the table.
I watch the progress reach the end, then she checks that the file opens and plays beyond the point where Beatrice leaves the frame.
She also records the threat and its number.
The original stays on my phone. I show her the requests from the club's security office too, and she takes their contact number.
“Keep the full video off the business page for now,” she says. “If another message comes, save it and contact me. If someone's here threatening you, call emergency services straightaway.”
Peggy starts to ask something, but a knock interrupts her. She looks through the curtain gap.
“It's Ethan.”
I turn my phone facedown as Peggy goes to the door.
“Ethan Jennings. He's the photographer,” Peggy tells Alison. “We're supposed to look at the pictures this morning.”
“I'd like to speak to him, please.”
He comes in carrying his laptop bag, still wearing the plain black jacket I remember from setup. Ethan looks from Peggy to me, then sets the bag down slowly.
“Is there any news?”
Peggy tells him. He reaches for her hand when her voice catches, and she lets him hold it for a moment before moving aside to introduce Alison.
I stay at the cutting table while they sit near the front mirror. The curtain is open now. In its reflection I can see Ethan lean forward, his elbows on his knees, as Alison asks about his work at the launch.
“I left around half past ten,” he says. “The main shots were done. Fern has my booking times if you need them.”
I remember him photographing the capes earlier. After that, I couldn't place him anywhere. I'd been busy, then I'd wanted a drink and a man who didn't talk to me the way Lincoln did. Even in a room of people I know, I don't keep track of when everybody leaves.
Alison asks him for the event photographs. He opens his laptop to check what he has with him, and Peggy helps him find somewhere to plug it in.
Across the room, Ethan has found the first group of pictures. Peggy stands beside him, one hand on his chair. I can see the launch lights reflected in his screen, all that work we did to make people want to come out after dark.
The packaged skull lies beside my phone. I lift it from the table. Behind its eyeholes, through the clear wrapping, I can see a stack of our booking cards. The plastic crackles as my grip tightens.
My name is on every one, along with my number and this address.
Whoever sent that message won't have to ask where to find me.