“I can’t.”
“You don’t want any baggage going into Killer Body?” he asked.
“As if I have a rat’s-ass chance.” She leaned against him again, and for some reason, they both laughed.
“What’s really bothering you?” He breathed the question into her ear.
She forced herself to step back, look into those golden eyes. “I already have baggage, Rossi.”
“What kind?”
“Big-time baggage.” Might as well just say it. “I saw something that might not mean anything. Or it might mean everything. It could save somebody’s life or ruin it. I don’t know. But if I tell it, I’ll have to admit something else about myself,”
Now the tears escaped, warm as his arms back around her, but not as a potential lover this time, as a protector.
“What did you see?”
“Julie Larimore.”
His arms tightened. “You saw her? When?”
“I don’t want to go into that.”
“After she disappeared?”
“No, right before.” She pulled away from him, trying to erase the image from her mind. “It was Julie Larimore, but it wasn’t.”
The Interview
Do you really think you’ll go back, or will Bobby Warren find a replacement?
Of course I’ll go back. I wasn’t running away from Killer Body or Bobby Warren. I was taken away by a problem that has since been solved. He will never know what happened during the Secret Hours. He’ll welcome me back. That’s my face, my figure on the poster, my dress that the stores can’t keep in stock, that soft sweep of black wool jersey. He will never replace me. I’m like a daughter to him. You don’t replace your own daughter. You wouldn’t, would you?
Do other women do this? Do they engage in imaginary interviews in their own heads, interviews so real they can hear them? They’re shorter now, the questions less connected, but I continue to answer. I always answer.
Will he replace me? The question brings tears to my eyes, and I burn from the inside out, unable to writhe away from the painthat drains my strength. No one replaces me. Don’t let them. Stop anyone who tries.
TWENTY-NINE
Rikki
Roberta Matlock has taken me inside, nearly dragging me because she’s as overcome with excitement as I am with shock. “I have newspapers,” she says. “We can find yearbooks. I’m just floored that little sad-faced girl grew up to be Julie Larimore.”
We go down the narrow wooden hall that leads to the staircase. A couple of customers browse. Roberta pays them no mind, lifting her long skirt as she steers her large, graceful body up the carpeted steps.
“If I don’t have anything up here, I’ll have it at home.”
The upstairs office is a conglomeration of statues and flowers, much like Roberta’s backyard. File cabinets line every wall except the one with a window. It’s open, and the sun fills the room with yellow light, the same color as the organdy curtains that look as if they belong in a nursery. Roberta goes to one of the files and begins digging. “Computers don’t keep track of the newspaper stories worth a tinker’s dam, so I’ve got my own filing system.”
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
She turns, gives me a wild-woman stare, and for that second, I feel as if I’m back in third grade. “You’re a journalist. You want proof, don’t you?”
“You think you can find a photograph of her?” I indicate the haphazard stacks of yellow paper. “In there?”
“I didn’t say I could do it in five minutes or even a day. It’s going to take a while. Can’t remember her last name, either, but I can remember the story. She left after that. Went to live in a foster home in the Santa Barbara area, and he—dam, can’t remember if he finally died or if he just left after they sold the house.”
“Calm down.” Now I’m the one with the schoolteacher voice. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.”
