Not now,I tell myself. I’m here to support Jess.Focus on the conference. On the here and now.
The conference goers, and people in general ... they want to zero in on the shark attacks or lightning strikes of crime—the ones least likely to occur: the violent serial killers, like this Confession Artist business.
Why? Who knows?
Maybe to help us feel like we’re in control? So when we study it up close and view the details as if under a microscope, we feel like we’re simply looking at the legs of a centipede instead of the rape and strangulation of a young, unsuspecting woman. Or child. As if knowing all the particulars about the crimes in the news will keep it clinical, the observation alone like a headlamp leading us through the tangled woods.
But Jessdoesstudy crime like it’s under a microscope, and not an ounce of that practice seemed to help when she became a victim herself.
Maybe Ineedthis, though. Maybe it’s allowing me to escape a bit since quitting the force.
I pick up my pace, beelining it through the large busy halls. As I slide into line behind a tall man in the coffee shop, I notice a slight shift of energy out in the lobby. I look around for anything unusual.
I catch a glance at a wall of narrow mirrors lined up next to one another across the room. Our bodies are doubled—even tripled—in the reflections. The mirrors make all of us appear thinner and stretched long like rubber, like we’re in a fun house. Dim, sparkly lights cast an unsettling pale, sickly glow over us.
I turn away, grabbing my phone out of my satchel. Another text from Fiona.
OMG. Why won’t you call me? What do you think of the sketch?
Ha ha. Not me, I text back.In Dallas with Jess. Call you tomorrow?
But Fiona’s second attempt to get my attention sets my nerves tingling all over again. I adjust my carrier bag on my shoulder and see more notifications. Another text, this one from a college friend I haven’t seen in several years. John.
Girl, you aware of the latest sketch that’s out there?
I swipe it away, tell myself I’ll respond to him later.
Instagram informs me who’s recently posted new stories. Twitter, or X, tells me I have a new follower, bringing my total to a whopping thirty-two, which is perfectly fine. I’m not on it to become an influencer. I only joined to follow Jess.
A birdlike woman with a hooked nose to match jumps in line behind me with a friend.
In front of the tall guy before me, a young man with dark hair stares at me an instant too long.
In front of him is a group of three women. They’re looking at their phones, pushing satchels higher onto their shoulders, nudging each other. After one murmurs something to another, she points her chin to me.
My phone buzzes, thankfully giving me something to occupy myself with.
Wallace again.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Are you at home?”
“No, I’m with Jess. At that conference I mentioned.”
“You’retravelingright now?”
“Yeah, is that a problem?”
“No. I mean, maybe. Don’t you think you should do something?”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know. Report the fact that you look like the woman in the sketch to law enforcement?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You know why,” he says. “The earrings.”
