“I’m sorry. I know. Look, I should have called you earlier, but do you have my black clutch?”
“What?”
“My little black clutch? When I stayed at your place in December after the banquet for the symphony, I left it there.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Can you look for it?”
“What? Now?”
I give her silence as an answer.
“Seriously?”
“It’s about those earrings in the sketch.”
“What?”
“I think they’re in that clutch.”
“Oh. Oh my God. Cros.”
I can’t tell if her voice means she’s frightened for me, or excited to be a part of the story. If she’ll be posting by morning how I phoned her in the middle of the night looking for the earrings in the Confession Artist’s sketch. A part of me curses myself for not waiting until morning. The other part of me doesn’t care. I need to know.
I hear shuffling and can tell she’s out of bed.
“Cros?”
“Yeah?”
There’s something in the way she lets my name hang in the quiet night that sends a shiver down my spine. I glance at my bedroom window and meet my own reflection again, as I did in the kitchen window. I see the woman in the drawing. My breath catches.
“What?” I press.
“Iseverything okay? Are you safe at home? Maybe you should go to Jess’s.”
“No. I’m good.” I say it firmly. That’s out of the question. If I’m being stalked, the thought of bringing the killer anywhere near Jess or Sam makes my stomach do wild things.
“But—”
“No. I’m good.”
“Do you want to wait on the line or want me to call you back?”
“I’ll wait.”
An eternity. Almost four long minutes. Three and forty-seven seconds, but who’s counting.
“I sent you a picture,” she announces proudly.
My phone dings.
I open the text and see the picture of them cupped in Fiona’s pale palm.
A wave of relief takes hold.Yes.I pump my fist. “Thank you,” I say.
“I found the clutch in one of the bins in my closet.” She sounds fully awake. “I guess I accidentally threw it in with my stuff.” Which is her way of admitting she’s used it without asking me. “The earrings were in the outside zippered pocket. I had no idea they were in there when I used it last.”
