“Okay. Great. Are you still up for the sketch artist?”
I gave him a nod and was asked to move aside so the artist could sit in front of the computer and bring up a program.
“You don’t actually sketch anymore?” I asked the woman.
“Some do. And if what we get as an end result is close but not quite perfect, I might manually work on it. But let’s start with this for now.”
The computer program was one full of pages and pages of facial traits that reminded me a lot of a more sophisticated application of this game I used to play as a kid, where I would painstakingly design characters’ faces, bodies, and clothes before building a whole life for them. Only my interest always waned after the design part.
On the plus side, that mild obsession from when I was a kid made it easier for me to immediately sift through all of the wrong features to get as close as possible to the memory I’d been actively trying to reinforce in my mind, so I didn’t forget any feature.
“Does that look right?” the woman asked, pulling up the full image.
Staring at the sketch, my mind flashed back to the split second before I crashed down on my back.
The broken nose, the wide forehead, the dark eyes,the muzzle tip.
My belly flipped.
My pulse skittered.
“Yes,” I said, pressing a hand to my throat that felt like it was starting to close up. “Yeah, that’s him. Wait,” I said, brows pinching.
“Did we miss something?”
“No. Yes. Sort of. Not on his face. But there was something… here,” I said, gesturing toward his neck.
“A tattoo?” she asked, tone hopeful. I imagined because tattoos were such an easy way to identify someone.
“No. No. I’m not sure if it was maybe some sort of birthmark or a scar, but there was a spot right here,” I told her, gesturing toward my own neck. “He was too far away. And I mean, it could even be just, like, a smear of food or something. But I wanted to mention it just in case it was a scar of some kind.”
“I will make a note of it,” she said. “Well, thanks so much for helping us out, Gracie. Let me just see if Detective Vaughn has any more questions for you.”
Luckily for me, he didn’t.
And I finally felt like I could breathe a little as I made my way outside.
It was done.
My part in this whole mess of a situation was over.
I could go back to my normal life.
I had a double baby shower for two pregnant best friends to finish up some details on. And a list to go over for my next event—a fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Thankfully, none of my next six events took place at the Grassi venue. It would hopefully give them a few weeks to, you know, figure this whole situation out and handle it.
I treated myself to a trip to She’s Bean Around, indulging in both an iced and a hot latte to get me through my day.
Then I went ahead and made my way to my office.
It was a tiny little rental unit inside one of those massive brick buildings that held a bunch of medical and professional offices.
Did my budding business really require an office space? Not really. I could do all the planning on a laptop in my own apartment. But having my own space made it not only seem more legit to potential clients, but it also forced me to see it as more than my current side gig.
I had to cancel several of my subscription services and cut back on spending just to afford the rent, but with all the work I was doing, I no longer had time to watch shows and movies or go on shopping sprees.
Besides, the sacrifice was well worth it. I always got this delicious little fluttering feeling in my chest when I made it to my door and saw my business name—Confetti and Co.—stenciled on the frosted glass door.
