In the spot where Reed’s name should be, it says:P. Sawyer.
Huh?
I count the men again, matching each name in the caption to the photo to ensure I’m not losing my mind.
A. Lancaster, L. Mason, P. Sawyer, and so on. Definitely no mention of Reed Hayes.
The man in the photo looksexactlylike Reed, albeit a few years younger. Why doesn’t it say his name?
It’s as if Reed’s leading a double life. Unless...
No, no, no.
After staring at the article for another few seconds, I shake my head dismissively as if attempting to dispel the facts before me.
You know what, I’m done.
D-O-N-E.
Snooping was a terrible idea. I never should have listened to you. Bunch of bad influences, the lot of you.
While returning everything to his desk, where it should have been all along, my anxiety spikes. It’s not only from guilt. Facts pelt me like a medieval flogger, refusing to give my thoughts any respite.
A Reed look-alike with a different name.
Military service that doesn’t add up.
A prom I don’t remember him attending.
His hair shaggier than it ever was.
Articles about crimes with no reference to the FBI or the police department he worked at in Orlando.
I don’t think these folders are only about Reed.
And something still nags at me about those beach wedding photos. My gut keeps pointing me back to the blond woman with Reed.
Then it hits me why she looks so familiar.
She’s the same woman I saw in a lip-lock with Reed in that photo from five years ago. The picture Kenzie showed as proof of Reed’s unfaithful deeds.
Why didn’t I ask her for proof of when it was taken? And how did she get the picture in the first place?
I never asked those questions, and I should’ve. I bet she had an explanation ready, but maybe I would have seen through the lies if I put her on the spot.
No, I wouldn’t.
For years, I’ve held Kenzie in the highest esteem. I put her on a pedestal, convincing myself that she was the sister Zara must have sent to take her place.
Codependence at its finest.
I ate up her lies because the idea of disagreeing with her was too frightening. What if we fought and I lost her?
Regret isn’t a strong enough word for how I look back on my life.
All of it.
Not only with Kenzie, but with Zara, my parents, and even how I thought about myself.
