Only, for me, it wasn’t because I was worried people would bail. It was the reverse. I counted on her to keep me from becoming a hermit, especially after Sophie was gone and my mom passed three years later.
Fiona was always on the sidelines in one way or another. Sure, it was usually superficial interaction, but she was still a buoy of sorts.
The therapist I saw briefly after my mom passed—an older woman with a long, severe face and crisply bobbed hair who worked for the health center’s counseling services—pointed out that I had a loner streak. She wanted to know when it started. I told her it began after my dad passed away when I was in seventh grade and Jess in fourth, when I knew I needed to buck up and be strong for Jess and for my mom. But that I overcame it in high school, with Fiona’s help then, too, I might add.
But it’s been flaring up again since Jess’s backsliding. It’s not depression, like Jess is prone to; it’s just a desire to be alone, to pull into myself, to not be seen and be anonymous. But mostly, to be 100 percent available for Jess and Sam when they need me.
I scroll through my photos, but I’m smiling in most of them. Those don’t work for comparisons. I sit back in my chair, fluff my hair in front of my shoulders, and arrange it to expose my ears. Feeling sheepish, I hold up my phone, stare broodingly into the lens, and snap a mug shot selfie.
I’m wearing cubic zirconia studs, not the ones Wallace gave me. I rarely wear those since we’ve broken up. Not only does it feel a little hinky, but the truth is that I don’t like them all that much, even though they are fun and sentimental.
When he gave them to me, he told me he knew they weren’t entirely my style and that they were a little kitschy, a little “gift-shoppy,” but thought they were apropos since we had done some hiking and camping in the mountains. He had wanted to get something earthy, something Western. And the Montana sapphires spoke for themselves with their beautiful cornflower-blue hues.
It wasn’t the gems I didn’t love. It’s just that I’m a detective. I go for simple, and these seemed just a little extra. But a pang of remorse and sadness pings through me. They represent what could have been between Wallace and me. They represent hope and some fun, the promise of new beginnings. A phoenix rising from the ashes of the wreckage Sophie’s death brought to all our lives. A way for me to move on from the guilt over what happened to her so I could expand and flap my wings more freely. Because if Sophie’s own brother forgave me, surely I could forgive myself.
The noise picks up around me, catching my attention. More people have trickled into the atrium lounge—conference goers wanting space away from the crowds, or maybe they’re nabbing seats before the restaurants fill up for lunch.
A bartender has appeared behind the wood bar and is taking an order from a man who doesn’t look like he belongs at CrimeCon. He has the attire and physique of a rock climber. Backpack, disheveled hair, shaggier version of Russell Crowe’s gladiator beard, khaki shorts with a bleach-stain spot on one pocket, and a laid-back expression that says he couldn’t care less about the whole scene. The exact opposite of Wallace. Maybe early to mid-thirties, probably a few years older than me.
If I weren’t so anxious, I’d lust after a guy like him, all windswept and relaxed. Calloused hands from grabbing rocks attached to actual earth instead of pale, slender ones perfectly manicured for creating ephemeral tones on piano keys that leave me feeling hollowed out.
The thought instantly shocks me—the bitchiness of it. Given how Wallace’s music was the very thing that drew me to him in the first place. I ask myself, When didthisunkindness kick in? Is this what guilt does to a person, turns them into more of an asshole?
My phone vibrates, pulling me back. Jess. Already?
“Cros? Where are you? I can’t believe this is happening.” Her voice is high-pitched and strained.
“What’s happening?”
“One of my fans who came up to talk to me saw you with me earlier and they asked how I knew the target in the sketch. I can’t believe it. I told you. I told you it was you.”
“Calm down. There’s no reason to get upset. One person seeing that resemblance here doesn’t mean anything.” I try not to think about the others in line for coffee.
“No reason? How can you say that?”
“Think about it. There are probably hundreds of people around the country having this exact same conversation right now.”
“The earrings, Cros. Did you see those?”
“Yes, I have, but—”
“But nothing. How do you explain them? I didn’t notice them last night, but when I studied the sketch again now ... I just can’t be—”
“They aren’t uncommon. They’re probably sold on Amazon.”
I take her silence as a good sign. Either she doesn’t know or doesn’t remember they were handcrafted by one of Wallace’s friends.
“Listen,” I continue. “You’ve said yourself I look like Jennifer Garner. I’m not saying it’s her, either. I’m just saying there are a lot of women who resemble other people. We’ve claimed for years that Fiona looks like a blond Sandra Bullock. People have doppelgängers, and Jess, we live in the frigging Flathead Valley. Do you really think someone’s coming for me out there, at the ass end of nowhere? And for what possible reason?”
“It’s not like Montana hasn’t been discovered,” she mumbles. “But maybe you’re right.”
More progress.
Except she follows with, “We should have never come here. I can’t believe this is hap—” Her voice breaks. I suddenly feel horrible for leaving her there with her fans.
“Hey,” I say. “You were great. You feel good about it?”
She doesn’t answer.
