Except Iwasa different person now. Faraday knew it. Even Tom suspected.
And what Crystal believed didn’t matter: the purest form of intimidation is creating your own truth.
She took a few pictures of the spot where Peter had fallen, then headed toward the Quad.
I moved quickly now, along the forest path around the corner of Ridermore, ditching my jacket, hat, and mask. But I did nothing to disguise myself. My clothes, hair, nose were different. Even my stance was less confident, less upright.
Crystal almost didn’t see me walk by. Her eyes were on her phone, flicking through the pictures she’d just taken. But a moment after we passed each other I heard a hesitant call.
“Jessica?”
I turned, giving her nothing but an empty smile.
“Jessica,” she repeated.
“That’s my name. And you are?”
“We met in New York.”
“No,” I said. “I’d remember you.”
She took a half step back, looking me up and down. The well-worn Oxford shirt and jeans, completely different from my art student persona.
I ran my fingers through my hair, letting her glimpse the scars on my scalp.
“I’m Crystal Dennings. And you’re Jessica Anderson.”
“I’m not.”
“Jessica Morton, then.”
“That’s my name. But I don’t know the other one. Does she go here?”
Crystal didn’t answer, gazing at my nose, my scars, my clothes, the way I stood. “Stop it, Jessica. I’m not an idiot. Just tell me what you know.”
“About what?”
“Why did you disappear when Hiromi—” Her voice caught. Sometimes, I couldn’t say her name either. “Why?”
Last summer, Crystal had imperiously navigated every gallery opening, every conversation about theory or technique, mocking my cluelessness, my gaucheries. Now there was only grief and confusion.
She’d lost Hiromi too.
The air hummed around us. I could smell the coming storm.
“You were out there in the Catskills. She said she was taking you! Tell me what happened.”
I took a step closer, straightening, letting my old self shine through. Crystal was taller, but she wasn’t a Morton, not even a broken one.
She stepped back. “Why don’t you just talk to me?”
“Because we’ve never met.” At the heart of all power is that facts don’t matter. We, the strong, can substitute our reality for yours.
“That’s insane,” she said.
“You have the wrong Jessica.”
“You’reher. What happened in the Catskills? Why did you disappear?”
