I pull in tight next to Zane and park. The reporters waste no time. They crowd around him and my car, firing questions at me like darts through my barely cracked windows.
Crosbie Mitchell, do you believe it’s you?
How scared are you that you’re next?
What do you need to confess?
Are you going to confess?
Flashes explode in my face as they take pictures of me behind my windshield. I’m glad the reporters are either in front of me or behind Zane on the driver’s side. The writing on my car is on the passenger door. None of them have seen it or will be photographing it.
I wave Zane in closer and speak through the narrow opening of my window. “I’m going to drive in. Do not let them near my house. And if more arrive in the morning, whoever comes on shift after you, please make sure they also understand that my house is off-limits. Okay? Can you handle this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. He turns, spreads his arms out like the wings of a giant bird, and begins pushing the reporters away from my car so I can drive past. Suddenly, I’m beyond thankful to have him around.
When I get into my garage, my heart settling once again from the invasion of the press, I take pictures of the side of my car where the message is and call Alderson to tell him about what happened out at the dump site.
He scolds me like a tardy child, saying I shouldn’t have been out at dark alone. He asks me to send the photos and instructs me not totouch anything on that side of the car so that they can dust for prints and take samples of the marker as soon as they can get someone from forensics, probably first thing in the morning.
I lock myself in my house, go straight to my computer, and find all the articles. Jess is right. So far, they haven’t made the connection that Jess, the semifamous podcaster and DNA sleuth, is my sister. Jess is also correct that it began with the tabloids, specificallyTMZ. They mention my name, that I live in the Flathead Valley, that I was a former police officer, and most saliently, that I own a pair of unique earrings that perfectly match the ones in the sketch.
God, I want to wring Fiona’s neck. The fury is disorienting. I don’t even know the time. Maybe I should resist the impulse, but screw that. I pull up her number and call.
“Crosbie,” she answers, her voice sheepish. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t me.”
“Fiona, seriously—”
“I know you didn’t want it out there that you have those exact earrings, but Trey ... he, I mean, well, Trey said that it could only protect you in the long run. That the more attention you get, the safer you’ll be. And Cros, things have been hard financially, we should have never done that remodel, and daycare’s gotten—”
“Fiona, stop.”
She does. What follows is a long, freighted silence. What am I going to do, threaten her and Trey? Yell and scream at her that she’s violated my life? Tell her that she’s robbed me of my own choice to handle this the way I think best—that I would’ve preferred to gain some momentum in my own investigation before the press got involved?
“Fiona,” I say at last, with all the calm I can muster, “it wasn’t for you and Trey, of all people, to decide for me how this thing goes down. You should have asked for my permission.”
“But Trey said you’d be safer, and—”
“Fiona,” I say, “you’re not listening. You should have asked.”
“But Crosbie, you have to understand that we thought it was best to get it out there,” she says, still not apologizing. “Rip the Band-Aid off.”
If I could wing my phone into the wall and see the screen shatter into pieces without it costing me anything, I would. I used to get the same rush when my stepdad roared at us and I felt like I couldn’t yell back. I was fearful of pissing off my mom, worried she would accuse me of sabotaging their marriage. I feel that same rush now.
“And you,” Fiona continues. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know,” she says. “Always focused on Jess. We figured you could use a little help doing what’s best for you, keeping you safe.”
Heat explodes in my cheeks. The hand holding the phone begins to tremble. I want to scream into it until she incinerates on the other end. Instead, I shake my head and hang up.
What a jerk to use my sister as an excuse for doing a greedy, self-serving thing. I understand now why my uncertainty about Fiona as early as in high school was justified.
My heart pounds and my mind whirs. My phone pings steadily. Announcements flash on the screen and seem to throb, hounding me until I swipe them clear. I catch glimpses of them without opening them:
If you’re a piece of shit, might as well fess up.
Just kill yourself now.
