What You Don't Know(34)

Some women are defined by their husband, some by their children, but Sammie had always thought she was defined by her work, by the words she’d put out into the world. And the Seever case—that’d put her at the top of her game, she’d had reporters from all over the country calling, wanting to horn in on her success. She could’ve gone anywhere after those days, should’ve taken one of the offers at the bigger papers in Philadelphia or New York, even L.A., but she’d stayed because she felt a loyalty to the Post. Denver had become her hometown even when it wasn’t, because it was where she wanted to be. But instead of moving up she’d gone to this, one woman after another in her chair, every one of their faces running into the next, so there were times when she’d look around the shop and be unsure who she’d already spoken with.

“What are you wearing?” the next customer asks. “You’re so pretty. What’s that lipstick you have on?”

“It’s this one right here, one of my favorites,” Sammie says, picking up a tube. “Let’s put some on you. It’s called Liar.”

Seever had made her career, and he could do it again. Remake her. She still thought about him often, still flipped through the scrapbook she’d made of all her articles on him, her name in bold print under her blurry photo. Thirty-one victims were found on his property. Twenty-six of them were female. Seever preferred women, but he’d happily taken whatever had come his way.

“You don’t have something with fuller coverage? I can still see that scar.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s there. Right there. You’re not looking close enough.”

Not all the victims had been identified, even after seven years. Eight of them had been buried without a name, without anyone to mourn for them. The cops guessed it was because his victims were from all over, not just Denver, and a lot of missing people were never reported. They were homeless, or prostitutes, or people no one gave a shit about. When they were gone, they stayed gone. And Seever had been on the road a lot, traveling for business, and his routes were nearly impossible to trace. He’d been at it a long time, before cell phones and credit cards, before surveillance cameras had appeared on nearly every building. He’d been a ghost.

“I’d never wear that color lipstick. It’s fine for you, but I’m a mother. You understand, right?”

She’d interviewed most of the families, walked through their homes, sat at their tables and drank their coffee. They showed her photo albums and old stuffed animals. They’d cried, and she’d patted their backs, handed them tissues. They’d wanted to share their pain, and she gladly took it, turned it into words. She’d visited the families, looked at the photographs of the dead, inhaled the dirt that’d covered their bodies down in that crawl space. Those experiences were like thread, and she’d taken them, braided those threads together and pulled them tight, laid one perfectly against the next, and that weave became her stories.

“I’ve had a terrible morning,” a woman says. She has hard eyes, a mean mouth. “I don’t want anyone to know there’s anything wrong. I want you to make me look good.”

This is nothing, Sammie thinks. These women and their petty problems, their flaws they want covered, their little insecurities. They don’t know what real suffering is. They’ve forgotten their coupons or they don’t know what to make for dinner or they don’t like how their hair looks. They tell her all these things because they want someone to care, but she doesn’t, not after what she’s seen.

“My ex-husband won’t leave me alone,” another one says. “He wants to fuck me again. One more time, he tells me. That’s all he wants.”

She needs to talk to Hoskins. That’s where this all started, how she got going on this path to begin with. They haven’t spoken in almost seven years. She doesn’t want to see him, but she does want to see him. She feels both ways, neither. But if Weber’s information is right and the two women pulled out of the reservoir are somehow connected to Seever, Hoskins will know for sure, he’ll know exactly what’s going on.

“How much does that cost? For one lipstick? Are you kidding me?”

“Excuse me,” Sammie says. “I’ll be right back.”

She goes to the bathroom, stands in front of the sink, and washes her hands. The light is dim and soothing, not at all like the glittering bulbs out on the floor. She wets a paper towel, presses it carefully to her eyelids so she doesn’t smear her eye shadow, the careful line of kohl. When she’d first been hired, she’d come in with nothing on her face at all, and she’d seen the shocked looks the other girls had given her, the disgust.

We sell makeup, her boss had said. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you come in with some on your face.

The bathroom door opens, and one of her coworkers comes in. It’s Kelly, Ethan’s girlfriend.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kelly asks, letting the door shut and crossing her arms over her chest. She’s so young, and so stupid—the type who’ll always think that if she bullies and complains enough, if she screams the loudest, she’ll always get her way. And sadly, it usually works.

“What do you mean?”

“We have customers out there.”

“I know.”