What am I supposed to say?
“Shit,” he says, still studying me. “That’s wild.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Usuallywildseems like an overstatement. Not today.
“But”—he gives a one-shoulder shrug—“could be a lot of people.”
“Exssssackly,” I say.
“You’ve been worried?”
“Ugh, I mean, getting texts from friends pointing out the resemblance isn’t comforting. And you. Seriously, did you just look at the sketch, notice me, and”—I snap my fingers—“bingo?”
“Kinda.” He squints, like it hurts him to admit it. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I saw you sitting here, and I’m a little bored and looking at the news and, well, you’re the only woman in my immediate view. It’s not all that surprising that my eye should fall on you.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh no, I mean, even if you were in a crowd and not off to the side like this, I’d notice you. You’d be hardnotto notice.”
I want to roll my eyes at the cheesiness of the statement, but I can’t help but crack a small smile.
“Plus”—he checks the photo on his screen again and glances back at me with his own coy smile—“she kind of looks like that actress who married Ben Affleck. What’s her name?”
I shift in my seat. Is he trying to make me feel better, or is he still simply digging out from the only-woman-in-his-immediate-view remark? Whichever, I’ll take it.
“Garner,” he says. “Jennifer, right?”
I nod enthusiastically.Yes. Yes.Someone else, someone everyone can recognize. But it’s an odd thought. Even though I don’t want this to be me, I don’t wish it on others, either.
“Well, good bet she’s already ponied up for an extra bodyguard.”
I have plenty enough going on without worrying about Jennifer Garner’s security arrangements. “You here for CrimeCon?”
“That. And the bar.”
“I’m sure there are better bars than in this place.”
“I have hopes for this one. I’m a journalist. Doing a piece on how crime media is shifting toward advocacy, CrimeCon being a good place to start. And bars are always great for getting good stories out of people.”
If things were normal, I’d want to pick his brain for examples of how the event was promoting such causes. Before Jess quit podcasting, she’d begun urging listeners to donate to a nonprofit demanding timely testing of rape kits by law enforcement and the enactment of more victim-notification laws.
But things haven’t been normal all year, and they’re as far from ordinary as you can get right this moment. And my right foot must know it since it’s madly tapping the floor. I force myself to still it.
I want to discuss the sketch again, wrap my head around it, but chatting about it with a stranger doesn’t make sense.
What ifheis the Confession Artist, for God’s sake? He comes off like some mountain-man creative type. With his well-muscled arms, I could see him making custom canoes or specialty furniture or having a studio somewhere in the boonies where he carves wooden sculptures of grizzly bears. Maybe he sketches, too.
He takes a sip of his drink, winces, and puts it down. “It’s a little early for drinking, isn’t it? But damn, these mega hotels. It’s like being in an airport. You can grab one any time of the day.”
“True.” I stand up. “It was nice chatting with you.”
“You too.” He looks at me awkwardly, like he wants to add something, maybe a condolence, likeTry not to worry.
But I walk away before he gets anything else out and call Jess to tell her I’ll meet her back at the room instead.
The truth is, I have no idea whether to give the sketch another minute of thought. But I also know there’s no switch I can flip to make the dark thoughts go away.
Chapter 9
