I stop at my office before driving home. I park in the lot out front, check that my gun is securely in my holster for the thousandth time, and go in, my senses on high alert. Reporters have stuck their business cards around the edges of my door sign.
Inside, once again, the first thing that hits me is the framed quote that Jess gave me:
Justice and power must be brought together so that whatever is just may be powerful, and whatever is powerful may be just.
Solofty. I shake my head. In principle, I’ve always agreed with it. It’s why I opened my PI business. And yet, I’ve crossed all sorts of boundaries in my short time in law enforcement and my even shorter time as a PI, placing my own ideas of justice on a very shady continuum.
Usually, pride to know this little bastion is all mine swells in my chest when I enter. But this afternoon, I feel like it’s a useless, cheap little space. Some tiny limp noodle I’ve picked out of boiling water to go up against a sharp blade of injustice. I try to shake it off and boot up my computer.
First, I call the hospital to check on Zane again. Still run into the HIPAA wall of silence, but I glean enough from the chat to know that he’s stable. After I hang up, regardless of Aaron Lasserio stewing at thecounty building, I finish my report on him so that Graham Insurance can pay me and, please God, continue to use my services.
Then, even though wading back into the online muck is the last thing I want to do right now, I force myself to take the plunge. I tour my social media accounts for posts about the Confession Artist, to make sure nothing important is sitting right before my face.
It’s a tornado of nastiness, as expected, its own forces snatching more and more foul comments. It’s not all bad, though. Some people are worried about my well-being. As I’m deleting most of the foul stuff, my eye snags on a post I’ve already seen before.
The truth will set you free.
It’s a common, trite thing to say. It doesn’t surprise me to see it repeated, but I check to make sure it’s not the same user posting it over and over. When I finally find it from two days prior, which takes tons of scrolling through a deluge of crap, I verify that it’s not. It’s from a different user. Long shot, I think.
When I get through the rest of the good, bad, and the ugly—and the neutral, all the folks reminding me that it’s my last day to confess, as though it might’ve slipped my mind—Jess calls.
She says, “Crosbie, it’s getting late. What’s your plan?”
I’m happy to hear from her, but her voice is terse, like a nail gun firing. I still see the look of disappointment and disgust on her face, so I say what I say next tentatively. “I’m going to confess.”
“You are?” I think I hear a small sigh of relief, but then she follows with zero sign of emotion. “What exactly are you going to confess?”
It hits me again, just like it did at the county building, that what I’ve been kicking around in my head is all-the-way, three-dimensional, in-the-moment, plain-as-day, heart-poundinglyreal. I am going to do it.
And there’s something else circling around my head. If Ridgeway and Lasserio aren’t the creators of the sketch of me out there, I want to catch who is. I want to draw them out so that I, the FBI, or even one of the deputies on duty can nab this killer. So my confession needs to comeafterthe deadline, not before, even if it puts my life at stake.
As frightening as it is, I need to do this for me. If there’s any chance that I am the target of the real CA and not just in Ridgeway’s crosshairs, it will hopefully draw them out.
From here on, it’s all about having alerts. I learned this on the force. Having a heads-up is everything when it comes to protecting yourself and others.
As long as I know someone’s coming, I can take care of myself. My Ring system works surprisingly well, and I plan to always keep my gun on me and next to my bed when I sleep.
My old Kevlar vest from my time on the force is in my garage. Since they’re formfitted you get to keep them, even when you leave. I haven’t needed it as a PI, but I plan to dig it out as soon as I get home.
Yes, I need this to prevent future victims. Regardless of the fallout for me.
And I know the price will be high.
And, in the long run, it might be just what Jess needs. For so long, I’ve wanted nothing but to protect and shield her. Clearly, that hasn’t gotten me, or her, very far.
“Well,” I say. “The whole Sophie situation and—”
“But do you really think it’s that?”
“I wasn’t finished,” I say. “The whole Sophie situationandthe whole Billy Railes and Leon thing, too. It’s not a full confession otherwise. I have to explain my reasons, impulsive as they were. That’s the thing that stings the most. What happened to Sophie and you, along with the harassment I endured. It was all motive for why I backed up Billy’s lie. And I spoke to Tim Mooney, the guy who was targeted but wasn’t murdered. He confessed partially at first and felt like he wasstillbeing stalked. He confessed more fully. Motive, rationalizations, and all. And he was spared. I won’t use your name. I’ll saya woman I know.”
“It’s a small town, Crosbie. Everyone will know it’s me. Plus, my podcast and how I quit producing material. People will put two and two together.” She’s digging in her heels. “Don’t be a fool.”
Suddenly, something gives in me. “Jess, this is mylifewe’re talking about here. I can’t believe you’d make this all aboutyouright now. If I’m willing to confess to the world that I was complicit in an officer-involved shooting, make thatkilling, and suffer the possible consequences, maybe it’s time you buck up and deal with the reality of what happened. I’m facing serious jail time.”
“Fuck you, Crosbie. There’s a huge difference,” she says, and hangs up.
Heat rushes to my face. I throw my phone on my desk and whirl around and grab the poster Jess gave me off the wall and bash it across one of my office chairs. The glass frame shatters. Shards fly across my office onto the floor, across my desk, onto the chairs. She’s right. There is a huge difference. I was the perpetrator in my situation. She was the victim. There’s no comparison. But now I’m a killer’s target. Doesn’t that make me a victim, too? Does she have no empathy for me?
