One of Those Faces (21)

Her picture flooded my browser. It was one I hadn’t seen before, a professional headshot. She had a smile in it that made me second-guess the resemblance. Had I ever been that happy? I clicked on the first link.

Each article ended with the same call to action. The cops wanted to speak to anyone in the community who had seen anything suspicious the night of Holly’s murder. She lived nearby, and it was believed she had called an Uber and was on her way home. They were speaking to her driver, but he was not considered a person of interest.

I wondered if she lived in the building she was killed outside of. Was she only moments from getting home and being safe in bed? If I had been on the street just a few seconds before her, would I be dead? My eyes grazed over the suggested links in the corner of the site and locked onto one word in a headline: Sarah.

I clicked without reading the full title, and immediately a photo loaded. Almost identical to Holly. Almost identical to me. In the picture Sarah Jenkins was outdoors with her hands on her hips, standing on a rock in front of a waterfall. She was fit and young, her hair highlighted several shades lighter than mine. I recalled the woman who had accosted me in front of the bookstore. With my pallor and darker hair, she’d probably thought I was a ghost of her daughter. There wasn’t a chance I truly was mistakable for this healthy, vibrant woman.

Like Holly, she looked like how I expected Issi would have.

Sarah lived in Logan Square with her fiancé and daughter. Back in July, she had called her fiancé on the walk home and never showed up. The next morning, she was reported missing, but her body wasn’t found until a week later, underneath the train line that went over West Schiller Street, less than a block from the studio. The police didn’t have any leads on this one, either, or at least not any public leads. She had been strangled, and there were signs of sexual assault.

My stomach turned.

The police estimated she’d been murdered the night she was walking home, and her body lay there the entire time she was missing. Her family said she wouldn’t have traveled through alleyways or by the train at night because it was dangerous. They believed someone brought her there and then killed her.

I turned off the screen and put both my elbows on the desk, cradling the sides of my head. What were the chances? There had already been two people with my exact face, me and Issi. But two other girls with a striking resemblance in the same city?

A shadow appeared from the corner of my eye outside the window, and a booming knock sounded on the door. I jumped, my feet raising slightly off the carpet. I couldn’t get a clear look at the person in the corner of the window, but I saw a shoulder. I crept quietly to the front door and raised my eye to the peephole.

A man wearing a crumpled slate-gray suit stood in front of my door, looking directly into the peephole. I instinctively ducked down, and he knocked again. Door-to-door salesman? Unkempt Jehovah’s Witness? He looked worn out, his forehead creased in three harsh lines.

“Police!” he announced in a monotone voice, the door rattling under my hands as he knocked. “I just have a few questions.” He reached for a wallet from inside his suit.

Without opening the door, I called out, “Do you have a badge?”

He turned back to the door when he heard my voice and opened his wallet, holding a badge up to the peephole. Chicago PD.

It was probably a real badge. They sold souvenir badges to tourists downtown, but this was most likely real.

I opened the door and peered out. “How can I help you?”

The man straightened up. “I’m Detective Wilder. We’re currently investigating a suspected homicide in the area,” he recited, his tone growing flatter with each syllable.

Suspected homicide? What else could it be?

“A few days ago the body of a young woman was discovered in the alley just across the street from you. I’ve been interviewing people in the neighborhood to see if anyone saw or heard anything. I stopped by your place before, but you were out, I guess.” He glanced over the top of my head into my apartment.

I narrowed the gap between my body and the door. “Homicide?” I asked. I didn’t know why I was acting coy. Half the neighborhood had huddled around when Holly’s body was recovered.

He stared at me for a second. “Yes, a body was found just a few days ago. Have you been out of town?”

“No, I’ve just been busy.”

He observed me for a long moment. “Do you have a minute to answer a few questions?”

I nodded, the alcohol from the night before burning the edge of my throat, threatening to come up. “Absolutely.”

He glanced behind me at the door half-open. “Is there a reason I can’t come in?”

I stepped out and let the door completely shut behind me. “I have a cat. He might get out,” I said.

He pulled out one of those tiny notepads as if we were on Law & Order and jotted something down. Something about my cat, I guessed. He looked back up at me. “What’s your full name?”

I hesitated. Where would this information appear if I told him? If I told him about that night, would a reporter show up next and cite me as a witness? You’re not a kid anymore. He can’t do anything to you. Still, I couldn’t bear the thought that he might find me here. “Isabella Mallen,” I lied.

His pen halted its crawl across the notepad. He took a moment to review his paper before glancing at me through narrowed eyes. “Isabella?”