One of Those Faces (22)

I nodded.

“Where were you on August seventh around midnight?”

That grating metal sound echoed through my mind. “I was walking home from work around that time.”

“Where do you work?”

“The Tipsy Paintbrush. It’s one of those wine and painting places,” I elaborated.

He gestured behind him to the alleyway across the street. “So you would have been passing right by that alley around that time?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He looked at me sidelong. “Did you hear or see anything?”

My stomach flipped again. That sound could have been anything. You know what it was. “I may have seen a shadow . . . and I heard a, uh . . .” I paused. “A metallic scratching sound around there.” I nodded over to the alley.

“And?” He stopped writing and looked at me.

I glanced away. “That’s it.”

“You didn’t check to see where that sound was coming from?” he prodded.

You could have saved her. “It could’ve just been the L,” I said. The image of the darkness in the alley as I looked over my shoulder flashed before me.

“How long have you lived here?”

“A few years,” I answered.

“So after a few years, you don’t know what the L sounds like?” He narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down.

My muscles tensed. “I didn’t think the sound was that strange. It could’ve been anything.”

“Okay. Do you know Holly Bascom? Did you ever meet her?” He handed a photo to me. It was the same one from the news. “Do you recognize her?”

I swallowed and gave it back to him. “No.”

He returned it to his coat pocket. “Have we met before?”

I put my hand behind my back and rested it on the doorknob. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You look really familiar,” he continued.

“I get that a lot,” I muttered. “Is that all, Detective?”

“Yes, but if you remember anything else later or if you hear something, please let me know.” He flipped through his wallet and handed a business card over to me.

I took it and nodded. “Okay.”

He turned to walk back down the stairs. “Really, if you think of anything, let me know.” He started down the first step.

“Should I be concerned?” I called after him.

He looked over his shoulder and then pivoted back to me. “I mean, you should always be alert and stay cautious at night,” he said.

“Yeah, but, is this connected with that other murder? By Logan Square?”

He held my gaze, his eyebrows raised. “You mean the woman found by the train?” His surprise wasn’t encouraging. Was this the first time he’d considered a connection?

“Yes, Sarah Jenkins.”

He pursed his lips. “We’re investigating both murders separately, for now.” He turned to walk away again.

“That sound I heard,” I started, and he stopped where he was. “That wasn’t . . . that doesn’t have anything to do with the case, right?”

He stepped back over to me again, his brow creased. “I really can’t say,” he said through his teeth. “We’re not releasing any details about the crime scene to the public at this time.” It was a canned response. Something they had to say to the media and nosy neighbors.

As he walked away, I turned the doorknob behind me, almost tripping over Woodstock as I backed in through the door.

Wilder was either a bad detective or I didn’t resemble Holly as much as I’d originally believed.



I open my eyes against the pressure of water weighing my lids down.

In the cold water, Issi’s face is before mine. Instead of swimming, I reach out and touch her face. As my hand touches her cheek, her eyes flash open.

She wraps a red cloth around my neck and pulls. Her eyes unflinching, her face withered and pruney.

My arms dangle out in front of me in the water, motionless as I gulp and choke. My throat seals shut.



I gagged and coughed, expelling the imaginary water from my lungs. My eyes fluttered open as my phone chimed. There was a text from Erin.

Erin (10:11 p.m.): Look who I found!

Attached to Erin’s text was a dimly lit picture of her and Jeremy with Iann in the background behind a bar counter. His eyelids were heavy. I could only assume they were at the Robey. There were several other blurrier pictures of her cocktail and the rooftop sent all within a thirty-minute period.

The most recent message was from Iann.

Iann (12:01 a.m.): Are you awake?

I groaned and lifted my head up just long enough to prop my elbow and hand underneath. I typed out my response with one hand.

Yeah.

I rubbed my eyes while my phone buzzed beside me.

Iann (12:13 a.m.): Your friend is really wasted. Can you come pick her up?

Of course she was. I pulled up Erin’s number and dialed. The ringing disappeared into the sound of her excited scream over a background of jazz music. “Harp—er!” she yelled.

I yanked the phone away from my ear. I was definitely awake now. “Are you drunk?”

She laughed. “Oh, yeah!”

“Okay, stay there. I’m coming over.”