“Oh.” She furrows her brow. “I didn’t realize it was that serious. I mean, I know you’re a dead ringer for the sketch and the earrings and all, but ...”
“But what?”
“It’s unreal.”
“Unreal except don’t tell that to the first two victims,” I say. “Or their families.”
“We’re in nowhere Montana,” says Fiona. “It’s like some stupid game.”
“Except for when it’s not,” I say. “And believe me when I say I have my own doubts.”
Inside her foyer, I can see the excitement in her eyes. A memory of Jess asking me in high school why some kids, like Fiona, have it so easy pops into my mind. Jess had tried out for the cheerleading squad along with Fiona. Fiona made it; Jess didn’t. Jess was heartbroken. “Howcan she be so popular? Friends with everyone, even the teachers?” Jess had asked.
I told Jess that Fiona did that at the expense of being real. That she was sometimes fake and didn’t always follow through with people. That it was better to be sincere. I remember saying, “You don’t have to try to fit in with people you don’t particularly like all the time to be popular, Jess. It’s okay to keep your distance.”
And yet, here we are, still friends after all these years. She has always been there, but I still feel the need to keep her in check.
“Listen, Fiona,” I say. “Becauseit seems like just a game, it might be tempting to pop stuff on your social media about it. I get it. It’s crazy stuff. But like I said, even if it’s not me, which it’s probably not, it’s best to play it safe.”
She stares at me, her hazel eyes wide, but doesn’t answer.
“Got it?”
“I told you I did last night. Want tokeeprepeating it?”
I smile at her, past the tension. “Sorry. It’s all so weird. And again, I’m sorry for waking you up.”
Fiona brushes my apology away. “Come,” she says.
She leads me into the kitchen, a small, clean, and modern space that Trey recently remodeled. She grabs the clutch off a new white Corian counter that resembles granite or marble with grayish veins running across it.
I open the shiny black flap to expose the main compartment. An old lipstick, someone’s business card, and a comb lie at the bottom. I pull back the zipper to the small side pouch and there they are, sparkly and tangled together in the corner like they’re hiding. I pick one out and study it.
Seeing it up close, however, is bad news. It makes me realize the drawing is very accurate. A blue centerpiece in the middle of the silver feather. And even though the sketch is in black and white, the ones in the drawing are still eerily spot-on. I place the earring back in the pocket with its mate as Trey enters the kitchen holding Adriana.
Adriana reaches out for me, and I hold her little hand and smile.
“Crosbie,” Trey says. “How you holding up?”
I hate that expression with a passion because it always seems designed to make you melt into a puddle, not to bolster you.
“I’m good.”
“Yeah?” He studies me with concern. Pity, even. And something else, curiosity mixed with disgust, like he’s wondering what I’ve done. If he only knew. If Fiona only knew. “You going to confess something?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine.” I say it like I believe it. I think I sound convincing. “I need to get going, though. Thanks for this.” I hold up the clutch.
“No need to thank me,” says Fiona. “It’s yours. And, Crosbie?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry—I know you’re in a tough spot.”
“Unless I’m not.”
But now, I know better.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
