Page 73

He had his cell out now and he was tapping at the screen. He probably had a picture of some newly discovered horrible person Reeve was connected to. Or a report of something he’d done. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to see it. “I called the investigation off, Joe. I’m not interested in —”

He cut me short. “It’s another Amber sighting.”

“When?” Sighting meant alive, right? My heart was pounding in my throat, too scared to ask that question.

“Just before Thanksgiving. A woman went to an emergency room in Chicago with two broken ribs. She matched Amber’s description and she used that date of birth. The doctor who treated her noted possible signs of abuse, which meant he also took a picture for the file.” He stuck his phone in front of my face. “It’s her, right?”

I stared at the screen. Familiar blue eyes looked back at me, darker than mine, darker than I remembered hers being. She was shirtless, wearing only a black bra and a necklace with a jeweled dove that she’d owned for as long as I’d known her. The picture was from an angle and I could make out the top of a red tattoo on her shoulder, two columns slanting away from each other. Faded bruises ran down her neck and chest above her breasts. More bruises, newer, stretched up one side of her torso. I could guess the causes of each set. Choking bruises at the top. Then hickeys. The marks on her ribs were most likely left from shoes. From being kicked.

I’d had all of those marks at one time or another. Some of them invited, some – the ones that matched those on her torso – not. The Amber I knew wouldn’t have invited any of them. I could feel her pain so vividly as I surveyed her injuries. I hated that it was her feeling them instead of me. It hurt to look so I forced myself to keep looking.

“She didn’t press any charges,” Joe said, after he’d given me a minute to take in what I saw. “She walked out when they discharged her later that night. No idea if she had anyone with her. The phone number and address she listed in the file are both fake.”

I snapped my eyes up to meet Joe’s. “It’s not Reeve. He didn’t do this.”

“I didn’t think for a minute that he did. Chicago is where Vilanakis is based and that tattoo is a V, according to the records.”

A V like the one on Filip’s neck.

Joe hesitated, as if trying to decide if he should say the next thing. Or how he should say it. “There’s more. I’m sorry.”

“What else? Why are you sorry?” When he didn’t answer, I searched his face and found it more somber than usual. Traces of raw emotion peeking through his tough exterior.

My stomach clenched with fear – with horror – as I imagined the worst.

No. It couldn’t be that. I’d have to hear it to believe it and he was staring at me dumbfounded, not saying anything. “What is it? Tell me, Joe. Just fucking tell me!”

“Yeah.” He ran his hand across his face, sobering up after, as if the action helped him put his mask back in place. “A few days after that hospital visit, a Jane Doe was found.”

“No…” I didn’t want him to go on. I needed him to go on.

“In a Dumpster a few miles outside of Chicago.” His voice was even. An emotionless narrative.

“No.” Stop, please stop. It’s not true. My chest was aching, splitting open. For the second time that day, I felt like I was suffocating. Except this time there was plenty of air, just no room for it in my lungs as emotion squeezed against them, compressing them and rendering them useless.

“She was identified as the same woman in this picture.” Joe gestured to his phone.

“No. No. No.” Tears stung at my eyes and slipped down my face despite my refusal to believe they were necessary. They weren’t necessary. They couldn’t be. I latched onto the first alternate possibility I could think of. “Who identified? Maybe they got it wrong, Joe.”

“Emily…” He rested a consolatory hand on my shoulder.

I knocked his arm away. “Show me,” I demanded. “Let me see.”

“That was four months ago now. She’s been cremated. But I have a report.”

Four months. Four goddamn months.

He flashed a new screen in front of me. An autopsy report that described the Jane Doe with blond hair and faded bruises, the tattoo on her shoulder, the jeweled dove at her throat. It was hard to refute. Plain as day, the dead woman was my friend.

But I still couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it.

“It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her, Joe.” My voice was scratchy and too loud. People were staring at us, and I didn’t care. Let them fill the tabloids with reports that I’d gone mad at the Corner Mart, I didn’t fucking care.

The only thing I did care about at the moment was correcting this… this… misunderstanding. This lie. “Say it. Say it wasn’t her, Joe.” I clutched my fingers into his jacket, pleading. “Fucking say it!”

“It was her, Emily.” He pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me. “It was her.”

“You don’t know. You can’t know.”