“It was just me being absent-minded,” I offer. “A lot was going on back then.”
He waves his hand. “We should concentrate on the problem at hand. I mean, you’re not giving that ass an interview, are you?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“Good. I don’t see how that can help anything.”
I’m not so sure about that. For a split second, a part of what Jeremy claims he can do is almost appealing, as if it would be interesting to see how someone might assemble all the pieces of my life together into a cohesive whole instead of all the unflattering tidbits and conjectures that are probably already beginning to circulate. It’s not that I think I’m biography-worthy; it’s that the thought of someone other than me making some sense of all my awful shit is almost tantalizing. To have the company of others looking at me through the same lens of self-loathing and failure as I do.
But it’s only for a brief moment that I entertain this. It’s simply not going to happen, because, in the end, it all comes with enormous consequences.
And realistically, there is nothing I could do anyway to ease my conscience or atone for my deeds. What’s done is done. It’s my job to lift myself out of my own dreadfulness and the haze of my own guilt like everyone else does, one day at a time, all possibly while sitting in a cell.
I’m about to tell Wallace that although I appreciate his opinion, I’ll decide on my own how I want to handle the media, but my phone buzzes.
It’s Alderson.
“I need to get this,” I tell Wallace. I bring the phone to my ear as I walk down the hall and into my bathroom for some privacy and shut the door behind me.
“Crosbie,” Alderson says. “Is everything okay?”
It’s soothing to hear his voice. I’m glad it’s him and not Greene on the line.
“Yes,” I say. “You’ve seen the news?”
“Yes, and Zane filled us in, too. And he mentioned you’ve had two visitors, one he didn’t know about until you texted him, and the other your ex-boyfriend?”
“That’s right.”
“Not exactly airtight security.”
“They’re just two guys,” I point out. What am I, Zane’s and the other deputy’s PR person?
“So how did he get to your front door?”
I fill him in on how Jeremy walked over and is gone now. I tell him that Wallace is still here.
“He’s there with you right now?”
“Yes.”
“Is he leaving soon?”
“Yes, why?”
“You can’t afford to trust anyone right now. I want you to exit out the back door, circle around, and get to Zane. I’ll call him right now.”
“What?” I whisper so Wallace can’t hear. “I’m not doing that. It’s Wallace, for God’s sake.”
“Listen, Crosbie, we’ve been doing some more digging. And there’s a few things you should know.”
“A few things like what exactly?”
“Like the fact that Wallace has been out of town on the dates of the other two victims’ murders.”
That stops me. I can never keep track of all the places he travels for his gigs, but I haven’t thought of it. Why would I? It’s a ludicrous idea. “In the same exact place as the victims?”
“Within driving distance. Seattle and Los Angeles.”
