Page 18 of The Editor’s Choice

“Fine. Whatever,” I huff, making sure he doesn’t have any doubt about how frustrated I am with him and this whole situation. “It’s Dawson’s tattoo. He got it about a year ago.”

You’d think I just dropped a literal bomb from the expression on his face.

“Excuse me? That’s Dawson’s tattoo?” he stammers, completely shocked.

Chapter Eleven

Roman

“That’s what she said,” I tell Sara, too overwhelmed by the new information to wait for a face-to-face meeting. I grip the phone tighter, crushing it against the side of my head. “She said it was Dawson’s tattoo. He got it about a year ago.” I can feel the tremble in my hand as I relay the information, the realization finally sinking in.

“That would mean Dawson is the last person to see Emily alive. That we have proof of anyway. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have said so?” she questions, echoing my thoughts. “It doesn’t make any sense. Didn’t he tell the police that he hadn’t seen Emily that afternoon?”

“No, not exactly. He told them he and Emily had been at his house, trying to find Jade since she wasn’t returning their calls. Said he fell asleep and then woke up to pounding on the door from the cops,” I recount.

“This proves that wasn’t true though,” she continues. “He wasn’t at home worried to death about Jade and where she was. He was out with Emily, doing God knows what. They didn’t look worried a bit in that surveillance clip.” She’s getting riled up, frustrated that he is acting like a victim here when he was out living his best life without her, then lying to the police when it comes to a murder investigation to try to make him seem like a better guy. “Men like him give men a bad name,” she says, face twisted with disgust.

“Just to play the devil’s advocate, they could have gone back to his house after leaving the overlook, which could make the rest of his story line up,” I say, hating the feel of the words in my mouth. It makes me almost nauseated to go to bat for him at all, given everything Jade has told me about the guy.

“I guess that’s true,” Sara confirms, the scowl returning to her face. “Fuck.”

“Now what?” I question, pacing the floor in my kitchen. I’ve scrubbed my hands through my hair so much my scalp is sore. We have nothing solid to go on here, just that Dawson is the last person we’ve been able to find with Emily before she was killed.

“I have no idea. I was feeling like we kinda had this one wrapped up. Closed case, ya know?” she responds, irritation lacing her voice.

“Hey, wait. Does that video ever show the car leaving? Did they leave together, or did he leave alone?” I ask, a spark of hope in my tone.

“Neither.”

“What do you mean neither?”

She sighs before answering. “It means that the video footage doesn’t show anything. The car is sitting there for 37 minutes on video before it cuts to an entirely different scene. The next clip was hours later, and the car is nowhere to be found. The parking lot was completely empty when the feed came back.”

“Well isn’t that just convenient?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s just all the more damning in my opinion.”

“Mine too. I fully agree with you. But the police aren’t going to, Roman. They’re just going to say you have some circumstantial evidence at best,” she soothes, knowing I’m running out of patience by the second.

“Police be damned! They’re not doing a single fucking thing to find her killer anyway! It’s time we figure this out and take care of the problem ourselves!” I shout, the sound reverberating off the walls of the kitchen. By this point, I’m pacing again, opening and closing my fist over and over, needing to release some of this pent-up anger before I explode.

“You know as well as I do that you can’t do that. If there’s ever going to be justice for Emily, it needs to be taken through the proper channels. Plus, if you get caught doing anything stupid, you’ll be the one going to jail for the rest of your life. Not the person responsible for this,” she says, her voice sounding maternal for the first time.

“Fuck! I know I can’t do anything about it but I feel so helpless it’s unreal! I literally can’t do a single thing to speed this up or get justice for her and it’s driving me insane,” I confess, the rage finally boiling over. I slam my hand down on the counter, sending shockwaves up my arm, but releasing a fraction of the anger in the process, allowing me a little room to breathe again.

“I’m not sure if the surveillance will lead us anywhere further, but at least we know he was with her there shortly before she died. I’ve got the coroner’s report being emailed over, so I’ll check that out and let you know what I find there. I’m also sending the video to an acquaintance of mine to see if he can give us anything more there,” she says, filling the strained silence. “Just don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, okay?”

She waits for confirmation that I’ll behave before the phone call is wrapped up and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Suddenly the space feels small, like the walls are closing in around me. The silence here is too much for me to handle right now.

Within a few minutes, I’m pulling the apartment door closed behind me and heading toward town. I need to put some space between me and this investigation before I legitimately lose my mind.

I find myself sliding onto an open barstool about 20 minutes later. It’s just shy of 9pm so the place is still pretty empty, just a couple people at the bar and a few playing pool or throwing darts.

The bar is a small, locally owned place. I happened upon it during my first week here and have loved it since that first night. It’s all worn wood and stale smoke, cheap drinks and cheap food.

After ordering a whiskey sour, my go-to drink when I need to clear my head, I glance around the bar, wondering what each person is going through today. A divorce, maybe? Death in the family? Or maybe this is just a fun night out for some of them? Hell, a first date even.

As my drink is placed on the water-stained bar top, something at the pool table closest to me catches my eye. It’s dimly lit, but I could swear I saw something over there. Shaking my head slightly to rid myself of the thought, I turn back toward my drink, taking a small swig, relishing the burn as the alcohol makes its way down my throat.

I drain the first drink in a couple swallows, ordering another to follow. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of alcohol to get my mind off of everything tonight.