One of Those Faces (20)

My heart clenched. I turned around to see Bug standing halfway outside his door behind the staircase, cigarette in hand. “What?”

He puffed a big mouthful of smoke and grinned. His teeth were stained terribly. “That boy,” he said deliberately. “I saw him last night. He didn’t leave until this morning, huh?”

I couldn’t fight the sneer that curled my upper lip. I backed away from the steps and shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets. I turned toward the street, but I heard the rapid scuttle behind me.

“Wait, you owe me,” he shouted, tugging at my shoulder.

I pulled out of his grasp. “I know. I’m working on it.”

He looked me up and down. “Working on it, how? With your little art projects?” He laughed. “Why don’t you get a real job? It’s been seven years, and you haven’t been able to pay me once on time.”

It had been closer to nine, actually. I zipped up my jacket. “Thanks for the career advice, but I have managed to pay you every month,” I retorted. “Does it really matter if it’s been on time or not?”

He crammed his cigarette between his front teeth and waved me away before returning to his cave. I retreated quickly down the sidewalk, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he was gone.

Turning the corner, I joined the bustle of patrons browsing through a street sale in front of the bookstore. I took a breath and thumbed through the volumes on the cart. I wasn’t actually in the position to buy coffee, much less a book, but I couldn’t resist looking through them.

“Sarah!” The shout came from down the sidewalk. “Sarah!” The voice and hurried footsteps grew closer and more urgent.

A forceful tug on my shoulder spun me around to face a hysterical middle-aged woman, her eyes puffy and full of fresh tears. “Sarah?” she shouted shakily in my face.

Stunned, I only shook my head, leaning away from her. Her grip tightened around my shoulders. “No,” I said.

The woman’s pupils darted back and forth, searching for something in my eyes.

A man around my age suddenly ran up to us. “Are you okay?” he asked the woman, taking her hands into his.

She quietly said “Sarah” again and burst into sobs.

The man looked over at me and winced. “I’m so sorry,” he said, holding my gaze a second too long. The woman clung to him, her legs wobbling. “Let’s go sit down,” he said to her and led her away.

Still shaking from the sudden encounter, I looked around and noticed several people outside the bookstore staring at me and the woman hobbling away to a nearby bench.

I hugged my jacket tighter around my waist and ducked into the store. Once I was at the café counter, I glanced out the large window.

The barista followed my gaze. “What was that all about?” he asked, tying his apron around his waist as he walked from the espresso machine to the cash register.

I opened my mouth to try to form an answer, but the man from the sidewalk was suddenly at my side. “Can I get a cup of water real quick?” he asked. The barista nodded and went to grab it for him.

The man looked at me and shook his head. “I’m so sorry about that,” he said. He looked at me deeply again with the same expression as the woman. “You look a lot like her daughter and she just—she passed away.” He looked very near tears as well.

“Sorry.” I couldn’t form any other words. I was still shaking from the woman’s grasp.

He took the plastic cup of water from the barista and left to rejoin the woman outside.

The barista looked at me again. “What did he say?”

“Medium coffee, please, no room,” I said, pulling out my thinning fold of cash.

His expression fell as he printed my receipt.

“Actually, make it a large, please.” I unwrapped one more bill.

I grabbed my bag and waited at the bar until he handed me my coffee, reliving the encounter with the woman. I walked to the window in the shop and saw her sitting hunched over on the bench. Her head was in her hands, the man sitting slouched beside her.

They stood up and walked down the street. There were still a few people peering at them from other storefronts after witnessing the odd scene earlier. Once I realized they were going the path opposite of my way home, I left the bookstore.

Was it possible to resemble someone so closely that her own mother could make that mistake?

I readied my keys and floated through the door in a haze, absently stroking the rabbit’s foot key chain. Although I didn’t see him, Woodstock meowed at me from nearby. I sat at my drafting table and switched on my laptop. I got as far as the blank Google search before I realized I had nothing to search. I tried anyway.

Sarah.

Chicago.

Obituary.

The first page only had a series of pictures of graying and white-haired women of all races. Right. Sarah was a common name across the board. Also, there were two ways to spell Sarah.

Sara.

Chicago.

Obituary.

Same types of results.

Sitting back in my desk chair, I looked through the window to the alleyway across the street. I traced the scar from my ear down to my collarbone. My eyes trained on the slab of dirty concrete between the brick buildings. I could still hear that grating sound.

I scrolled to the search bar and typed something new.

Holly Bascom murder.