“Only the first headline onThe Daily Beast. Did they mention my name?”
“Yes, and there are photos of your earrings. I have no idea how they got them. There’s a picture of you wearing them at that banquet you went to with Fiona and Trey. Looks like it started withTMZorPage Six.”
“Fiona,” I say.
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“Would and did. Probably sold the photos, if it’sTMZorPage Six.” I know how those news outlets work. Although paycheck journalism isn’t a big thing in the US, it still occurs when a rag wants a good story with fresh photos and finds someone eager to cash in.
“You don’t know that it was her.”
“Come on, Jess. Who else?”
“Maybe it was the department. You stopped in there, too, right?”
“Possibly.” I think about it. There were a lot of cameras that night at the event, but the earrings? That level of detail, about me? “Hold on a sec.”
I change screens, keeping Jess on speaker, and pull upThe Daily Beastarticle. I scroll down to see close-ups of my earrings on top of a white, marble-like countertop, exactly like Fiona and Trey’s new one. A flame of rage ignites at the pit of my belly. I can barely hear Jess talking, and when I tune back in, she’s saying that it’s beside the point who gave them the photos, that what’s more important is making sure I’m safe. “If you won’t come here,” she says, “we need to figure out where you need to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going home.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can. If anything, this makes my home even safer.” I explain to her what Alderson shared with me earlier today about the woman in Texas, and how having reporters around might deter the killer.
She thinks about it. “I don’t like it, Cros. Look, I know this doesn’t seem real, like it’s some bad dream, but those two others, they’re dead now.”
“And I promise you, I’m not going to be one of them.”
Silence.
I’m disliking how she’s taken to going quiet on me. This no-response thing is new for her—one more aspect of her that’s changed.
“Jess?”
Still nothing.
“Jess, did they ... is there any mention of you being my sister in any of the articles you’ve read?”
She doesn’t reply. Tension creeps higher. Finally, she says, “No, not yet, not in the ones I saw. But I’m sure there will be soon.”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“Look, it’s not your fault, and they have no need to dig further into my life.”
“But they might call you and come to your house to ask you questions about me.”
“I know, and I’m prepared to shut them down.”
She seems stronger than usual, and I feel my chest loosen slightly. She’s almost sounding like her old self for the moment. “Okay. I’ll call you when I get home.”
I hang up and put my car in drive, snapping back to wondering who followed me out here and scrawled the ugly message on my door.
I race across the valley, knowing that if things haven’t already gotten wacky enough, they’re going to change even more now. I crack a window for some air. The lights of gas stations, car dealerships, pot dispensaries, dog kennels, and other storefronts slide by in a blur along the highway from Kalispell to the north end of the valley. The stretches of dark fields beyond them, usually comforting, suddenly seem menacing.
The Flathead Valley, and the surrounding wilderness, is my haven. It makes me feel whole, wipes away my past troubles, and for years now has helped make my dad’s and mom’s deaths and what happened to Sophie seem like clouds stretching over the mountains—in sight,but far away. But now, cast into this strange, deepening technological nightmare, the serenity of nature and all its balance and rebirth seem like a load of crap.
When I come to my gravel drive cutting through my own pitch-black field, I find Zane standing outside his car, his lights on, talking to a knot of five reporters, all carrying cameras with long lenses and huge flashes. There aren’t that many local reporters, so I’m thankful it’s not a mob.
