One of Those Faces (36)

I had almost forgotten that guilty knot-in-my-stomach feeling from when we’d first met. Seeing him again had sent an unexpected warmth through my body, like homesickness. And regret, so much regret about what could have been and how I’d treated him. It had killed me to leave him, and I hadn’t even considered the toll it would take on him.

But here he was, nine years later, happy. He wasn’t angry or sad. He was living his dream. Or a variation of his dream. I still couldn’t fathom why he chose to stay in Chicago and brave the winters and frozen lake rather than return to San Francisco. Why did he stay?

I held the phone close to my face, and my fingers glided over the keyboard.

(11:03 p.m.): Same here.

I deleted and retyped it three times before my thumb hit the send button, my heart racing. Nine years was a long time. Long enough to forget those cold nights when we’d warmed ourselves with stolen buttered rum and laid against each other on the floor in front of the fireplace watching Casablanca when I couldn’t fall asleep.

Danny (11:03 p.m.): Goodnight, kid.

I smiled to myself. Maybe it wasn’t long enough to forget after all.

I set the phone down on the table, letting it buzz with another response as I nestled against Iann’s arm. He turned toward me, still asleep, and I rested my back into his chest. Nine years was a long time to wait for that feeling again.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I started carrying the pendant with me. I slipped it on the key ring alongside my apartment key and the backup key for the studio to replace the rabbit’s foot. The added weight in my pocket was both unsettling and comforting as I walked around shopping for Iann’s birthday gift.

I unlocked my phone and opened my chat with Erin.

(3:23 p.m.): What’s a good guy gift?

Erin (3:45 p.m.): For Iann? Idk, DSM-5? lol

Helpful, as always. I sighed and ducked into one of the last stores on the street. I had struck out already at three different places.

What did I even really know about him? I scanned through the CDs near the front of the store. Did people even buy CDs anymore? Most of the shoppers were browsing through the vinyl records. Was vinyl in again? Iann definitely didn’t have a record player.

I surveyed the next aisle. My eyes stopped on the man at the counter staring at me. I recognized him.

He glanced away and finished paying the cashier. He had been with Sarah’s mother when she ran up to me on the street. His eyes darted over his shoulder at me once more before he pushed through the door.

I dropped the CD I’d been holding and followed after him. “Excuse me,” I called after him once I was on the sidewalk.

He turned around and grimaced when he saw me.

I continued to approach him, my hand fidgeting with the keys in my pocket. “I—” Now that I was in front of him, I had no idea what I wanted to say. “You came up to me a while back,” I began, “with a woman. She thought I was Sarah.”

He sighed, tightening his grip on the plastic bag in his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”

My heart thumped faster, echoing in my ears. Now what? “After that, I heard about what happened to Sarah, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

His features contorted. “Thank you,” he said. His red-rimmed eyes lingered on my face. “Sorry if that was weird for you.”

I traced the pendant with my finger. “I know it’s none of my business . . .” I took a step toward him. “But have they found who did it?” Detective Wilder had been quiet. A big part of me hoped it was because they’d figured it out.

His lips were curved in a perpetual grimace. “No, they haven’t.” He was still studying my face. “You really do look so much like her. She was my fiancé.”

“Did you hear about—” I hesitated and pushed forward. “About Holly Bascom?”

His brows knit together. “Who?”

My heart raced faster. “Holly—she was killed here in Wicker Park, just a few weeks after Sarah. You should ask the police about it.” I immediately regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth.

But he didn’t seem upset, just entranced almost. It was always hard to wake up after a tragedy. He snapped out of it and finally looked away from me, reaching into his pocket. “What was that name again?” As he pulled out his phone, the shopping bag fell from his hand onto the sidewalk. A CD and a small colorful paper spilled out between us.

I picked up the illustration. It was of a little girl holding a bundle of balloon strings and floating up. It was one of a few watercolor prints I put into the shops that would let me. I barely got a few dollars off each sale, so I’d stopped after the first round. There was no telling how long this particular one had been on the shelves in the music store. “Did you buy this?” I asked, handing it to him.

He slid the CD back into the bag. “Yeah, it’s our daughter’s birthday this weekend,” he said, brushing the painting off. “She has a few of these.”

“That’s mine.”

He stared at me blankly.

“I mean, I made those,” I clarified.

There was a flicker of a smile. “Oh. Well, Anna loves them, especially the one of the girls with the cat. Sarah used to get them for her. I had to look at a couple of different places to find this one.”