The thought brings a huge dose of relief. That it could all be okay after all. A thrill shoots through me at the notion that, poof, it could alljust go away. That perhaps the real CA has decided to no longer strike, and that Greene and Alderson will nail Clarissa’s murderer, this copycat, all in one swoop.
Something murky and toxic roils inside me. If I survive this, how long can I live this way? With these corrosive secrets? Is it enough for only Jess to know them? Can I go back to life as it was?
And still, even as I feel this churn—like I’m filling up with candies that have too much saccharin and leave you feeling gross and unsatisfied—I still want to get out of confessing desperately. For me. For Jess. Coming clean, like Mooney said, involves doing it thoroughly, with all the reasons and rationalizations, good, bad, and otherwise. And Jess doesn’t want her personal life out there. It’s the very reason she didn’t report the rape.
It’s been twenty-five minutes, which is nothing in cop-interrogation time. It takes longer than you’d expect to get someone in a room, settled and chatting.
I’m impatient. I hop out and walk to the front entrance, coffee in hand. I pace by the door, thinking it over, feeling like a kid shut out of an adult dinner party. I want to talk my way into the wing where the observation room is located, but my lack of a security badge means I’m nobody.
I spot Ewing walking up the sidewalk.Ugh.Besides the killer coming up behind me with an axe, Ewing’s the last person on earth I want to see right now.
He hoists a stiff, fakey-fake smile into place. “Mitchell.”
“Ewing.”
“What brings you in here? Are you okay?”
He almost looks concerned. I want to laugh. “I’m fine.”
“Everything okay with the, uh”—he clears his throat—“situation you’re in?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“I hear some guy involved in one of your PI gigs is getting questioned.” He motions toward the glass doors.
I know word travels fast but remind myself to talk to Alderson and Greene about running a tighter ship.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I’ve got some other business to take care of,” he says. “But you know we always offer to help the FBI out. Teamwork. Right?”
I don’t answer.More like spying.
“Guess you weren’t big on the whole teamwork thing, though,” Ewing says.
“Excuse me?”
I heard him clearly. But I’m surprised he’s gone there. Then again, not: He never had a problem saying what was on his mind, even if it made him a rude jackass.
He stares at me. Studies me. “Have you been eating?”
“Yeah,” I say, and think of the uneaten bagel sitting in the car.
His lips pull together softly and his head lists to the side, as if something in him shifts. His hard gaze relaxes.
Is it pity? I dislike it more than his judging stare.
“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is a bitch of a week for you. I was sorry to see you get identified in the media.”
Again, I don’t answer. Why is it I can never think of any decent comebacks around this man?
And because I don’t answer, he continues. “I am sorry.” He looks at his watch, which must have the date on it. His fingers tick up in order, one to five. “Your last day, right? And you haven’t confessed anything. Are you going to?” His eyes drill into mine. Is it curiosity or is there that same old warning in them? I can’t tell.
“Not sure.” I take another sip of my coffee. “Probably not.” I haven’t fully come to a decision on this, but it’s not for Ewing to know what I’m thinking. I’d rather have him think I have nothing specific on my mindtoconfess.
“Gutsy. Hopefully this is the guy. Wouldn’t that be something? Catching the Confession Artist out here in little ol’ Kalispell, Montana? Or more likely, you being targeted by some copycat. No less someoneinvolved in your own work.” He grimaces. “Hell, you never even being therealtarget of the actual Confession Artist, now there’s a story.”
I give him back a smarmy smile like I, too, think it’s all worth a laugh. Ha ha, joke’s on me: Crosbie Mitchell’s not even worthy of therealCA.
