Chapter 28
I’m in my car out at the main highway, but I’m too late to know if the author of theIt’s Youscrawl has gone north or south where the highway meets an intersection a little ways down the road. And I still don’t know if it was one person or two.
I drive back to the dumpster site and catch the truck that arrived while we were both there. He’s pulling out. I flash my lights, roll down my window, and wave for whoever’s driving to stop. A graying man lowers his window.
“Did you happen to notice the make of the other car that was next to mine when you came in?”
“You mean over on the other side?”
“It was the only other car besides mine when you drove in.”
“I want to say it was some sort of SUV. Too dark to see the color or make of it, though. They steal somethin’ from ya?”
“No. Just a little graffiti.” I smile and roll my window up before he can ask more.
He gives me a salute-like wave and drives on.
I go to the spot where I first parked and search the area again. The ground is too hard packed and well trodden for any distinct footprints or tread marks.
I hop back in my SUV and check my phone. More notifications pour in, including several alerts from my new surveillance app.
When I look at the surveillance feed to my front entrance, I see Deputy Zane out of his vehicle speaking to about three people.
I dial Zane’s number.
“Crosbie,” he says. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“It’s late. Where are you?”
“Just finished some work. Who are those people you’re talking to?”
Zane sighs loudly. “You’re not going to like my answer.”
“Why?”
“Reporters.”
“What? How did they get involved?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, some stories have come out with your name.”
“Do not let them anywhere near my home. I’ll be right there.”
I flip to one of my news apps. At the top are severalTop Newsnational headlines regarding politics, Russia, and Ukraine, a weather update about a hurricane in the Atlantic, and below those—second down from the top, after some headline about Kevin Costner—it reads:Sketch Artist’s Next Victim Possibly ID’d.
Damn.
My pulse pounds in my ears as my world shrinks and spirals into more of a madhouse than it’s already been. As I click on the article, a call from Jess takes over my screen.
“Jess,” I answer a little breathlessly, but still try to conceal that I’m reeling over the marker on my car.
“Where are you?”
“Heading home.”
“Oh my God, Cros, no. You can’t go home. This has gotten crazy. Have you seen the news?”
