“It’s okay. I mean, yeah, of course you can text me.” I flush. Do I uncrouch? Or will that make me look worse? I stay put, trying to think of a reply that will distract him from my awkward position. “Have fun, erm, bag shopping.”
Jesus, Fliss.
“Thanks. Speak to you later, then.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bye, Iz.”
“See ya.” She waves and waits approximately one eighth of a second before pushing my shoulder so I lose my balance and roll onto the ground.
“Hey!” I laugh, pushing myself up, my hand pressing on something sharp in the long grass. “Ow.” I pull it back and study theskin on my palm, but there’s nothing there. “God, that was embarrassing.” I sigh.
“Youwere embarrassing,” Izzy accuses, though her tone is gentle. “You were on another planet today. Want to share?”
“Not yet.” I feel around in the grass for whatever poked my hand, and my fingers close around something small but solid. “I don’t think Noah picked up all of his stuff,” I say, pulling it free. It’s a thin gold chain with a broken clasp. It glints in the sun as I lay it in the palm of my hand.
“Unless he started wearing delicate gold jewelry recently, that’s not his,” Izzy says, taking it from me and tilting it so the light reflects off it. “Someone must have lost it here.”
“It’s not dirty, though,” I counter, and Izzy narrows her eyes in a silent question. “If it was here for long, it would be covered in soil, wouldn’t it? Especially if people have walked over thisspot.”
“You terrify me,” Izzy sighs, shaking her head. “You’re always thinking two steps ahead. Remind me never to play chess withyou.”
“You know I can’t play chess.” I stand up and hold my hand out for the chain. “I’ll hand it in at the gallery desk and they can post about it or something. The owner might be looking for it. Then I really need to go home and change. I’m a mess.” I am soaked, so I’m not lying, but going home is less about the coffee stain and more about updating my murder board before I take itandmy theory to the police.
“Okay, let’s go.” Izzy hands the necklace over and stands up, brushing herself off. I look at it again, realizing that the patternedlink in the center is actually looping script. “Hey, I think this is one of those nameplate necklaces.”
“It is?”
Izzy’s intake of breath tells me that she deciphers the letters at the same time as I do. We both stare at the necklace in my hand, the name now so obvious I don’t know how we didn’t see it right away.
Jennifer
TWENTY-NINE
“Fliss, slow down!” Izzy trotsbehind me, puffing in the heat as I race along the pavement.
“In a minute,” I pant back, one hand searching blindly in my tote bag for the house keys as I march toward the apartment. Why do I use totes so much? I can never find what I’m looking for—they’re like one giant pocket, no organization at all. I might as well be carting around a trash bag.
I stop abruptly and Izzy almost trips over me as I crouch down to search in the bag.
“Fliss, look at me! It’s just a weird coincidence,” she says, taking hold of my hand. I’m still clutching the necklace, so tightly I can feel the letters cutting into my flesh, but I don’t let go.
“No, it’s not,” I mumble.
I know it’s not because I remember looking at this exact necklace on Jen last night. Why did Noah have it? I feel jittery, wired, like if I don’t get this jumble of thoughts out of my brain somehow, then they’ll implode. I see a flash of neon pink in the bag, and I grab my keys, straightening up and practically running the rest of the way to the flat. I tear down the path and up the steps,unlock the door and shove my way in. I drop the keys and my bag on the floor as I go, leaving a trail to my bedroom.
“Fliss!” Izzy shouts behind me, slamming the door.
“I’m fine!” I yell back.
A tiny part of my brain acknowledges that Izzy’s really annoyed, and rightfully so, but the rest of my gray matter is way too busy to worry about her feelings. I know I’ve really aggravated her when she doesn’t follow me into our room, instead hearing the sliding doors to the living room rattle closed, followed by the low rumble of the TV. Good, I need some time to myself.
I peel the necklace away from my hand and lay it on the dresser next to the little red flower that Noah left for me. I can’t look at it, so instead I unfold the board and flip it over. The expanse of cardboard that we’ve jokingly referred to as the murder board all week now looks inadequate for such huge thoughts. I start ripping articles and printouts from the cardboard and make an untidy stack, then grab the tape from the dressing table. I shove the cardboard to one side and stare at the blank expanse of my bedroom wall instead. There’s definitely more space here.
Let’s go.
I tear off bits of tape with my teeth and stick the pictures of The Four along the sage green wall, making sure they’re displayed in the same order they hang in the gallery. Then I uncap a black Sharpie. The rational part of my brain tries to tell me that this is not a good idea, but the urge to see my thoughts laid out means that rationality is completely overtaken. I need to get all this out of my head. I focus on the first portrait and think abouteverything I saw on Monday night, then start to write beneath the portrait, the Sharpie biting into Kim’s careful paintwork.
Victim One: Helen Coleman
Date: Monday 3rd August, between 8 and 10pm
