“You should. You were terrific.”
She heaves a sigh. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have stood there like an idiot for God knows how long.” She asks me where I am and tells me to stay put, tells me she’ll come my way as soon as she meets with one of the conference organizers for a minute.
I look back at my fantasy rock-climber guy. He has a handsome, slightly weathered face to accompany his sinewy arms and legs. If the world were a perfect place, I could fantasize about meeting a guy like him here in Dallas, picture the sheets a mess and a bottle of champagne. But my world isveryfar from perfect.
He scans the place.
And heads right toward me.
I go on high alert.
He sits down a few seats away, as if he hasn’t even seen me at all, and digs through his backpack frantically. What’s he searching for? My heart hammers against my sternum.
Even if he is the perp, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t draw a gun in the middle of a crowded hotel—logic lost on my body as every muscle goes as rigid as steel cable.
Finally, he pulls out a phone.
I close my eyes and take a very long and quiet exhale. What is mydeal? I shake it off and turn my attention back to the selfie I took and the drawing.
Since the sketch is in black and white, I can’t make out the color of the eyes or the gems in the earrings. The shading makes it seem like the woman has dark hair, like mine, but I can’t be positive. Additional texture has been applied to her cheeks, suggesting a natural blush or perhaps a darker complexion, both of which I have.
But besides the earrings, my photo is pouty and sheepish. It’s missing the hardness in the sketched woman’s eyes. Or is it bitterness? Maybe guilt?
There’s an unattractive anger depicted in the drawing, in the rigidness of her face. She looks pissed. Like she’s telling everyone to fuck off.
Isthat me?
Looking in the mirror my entire life, have I only seen what Iwantto see? Have I even spottedthisangry of a look on myself, the one captured in the sketch? Part of me would like to think it can’t possibly be me because of this very aspect. And if it is, well, the Confession Artist is getting it wrong. My face isn’tsoobviously showing what I know has been going on inside me all year. It’s not this irritated.
But deep down, I know it is.
It is because hate is similar to fear. You can’t control it when it grabs you. It’s primal. It can overshadow everything. It can make you complicit in shit you never thought you’d ever partake in. It can make you lie to yourself, fool yourself, keep you from knowing yourself until it’s too late.
I go back to my phone.
Two more articles pop up:Next Possible Victim for Confession Artist Killer, with a question for a subtitle:Is everyone in the US who resembles this sketch potential prey?
The other:Who Have You Wronged?
Like it’s directed right at me. Shit. Not now. I can’t think of it all right now.
I go back to reading.
Variations ofCA Has New Targetkeep flashing on my screen. A notification for a Reddit thread pops up, a question about what the killer is trying to accomplish.
I swipe them all away and googledangle feather earrings with gems. Tons of choices pop up from all sorts of stores. Thank God. Many have the gems at the very top instead of in the middle of the feathers, but I’m comforted to know that a lot of feather earrings are being sold and am confident that, with more searching, I can find some more similar to mine.
Then I hop on Twitter-slash-X.
The dumping has already begun, all the hashtagging:#ConfessionArtist,#SketchKiller,#CAConfession,#SKConfession,#PsychoKiller,#JusticeKiller,#FiveDays.
The confessions in response to the initial two sketches never came in because no one took the situation seriously. But after the first two bodies were found, the paranoia kicked up. Way up.
People who thought they looked like the third sketch started tripping all over each other fessing up to anything and everything—and on every corner of social media.
It was a shit show of folks putting it out there that they’d shoplifted when they were desperate or for the thrill, bullied someone in high school, cheated on their taxes, had affairs, lusted after their own siblings ... I shudder to think of the huge hits marriages are taking from this psycho’s cruel game.
Probably many have lost friends and maybe their jobs over some of their admissions, worrying that it wasn’t worth the gamble to keep secrets stuffed away if it meant their life might be at stake.
