One of Those Faces (48)

A sharp headache shattered the dream. I couldn’t remember where I was until my hands curled around my soft blanket. I opened my eyes and jumped, backing up on the bed.

Bug was facing away from me. But I recognized that sweaty back and that smell anywhere.

“What are you doing?” I gasped.

He pulled himself out from the window, knocking his head against the windowsill.

I was still wearing my clothes from the day before, but I pulled the blanket around my shoulders. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He waved his wrench toward me. “The heater’s broken,” he said, rubbing the top of his balding head. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

“Get out!” I stood up, steadying myself against the bed. “You can’t come in here! Not when I’m sleeping!”

He put his hands up before tossing the wrench into his toolbox. “This is my house—”

“I’m your tenant,” I said, my voice growing louder with each word.

He smirked, eyeing me. His gaze lingered on my neck, focusing on the scar. “Oh yeah? Under what lease?” He laughed. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“Fuck you! I pay rent.” I glanced around the room. Had he seen Woodstock?

“Barely,” he grumbled.

“Get out,” I said again, this time through bared teeth.

He picked up his toolbox. “I fixed it, anyway.” His eyes surveyed my chest before he turned and opened the door with his free hand. “If I see that cat in here again, I’m going to kill it.”

My heart thudded in my chest.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind him.

I collapsed back onto the bed, my heart beating hard enough to power a small engine. I leaned my head against the wall. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen (or threatened) Woodstock. It happened about every other year, and then he’d forget about it.

A notification buzzed on my phone. I dug my hand under the pillows beside me and extracted it.

Iann (9:07 p.m.): How’s everything going?

In all the excitement I had almost forgotten about Jeremy. I ran a hand over my face. I could see that look in his eyes again. Was it recognition or horror?

I turned the phone over in my hands.

Are you still coming over? I texted. His response came immediately.

Iann (9:12 p.m.): On my way.

I gnawed at my fingernail as I recalled the way Jeremy had watched Erin the first time we’d met at the studio. Something about him had always bothered me. If it was Jeremy, there was at least a motive, a relationship to pin it on. But what did that mean about Sarah’s death? Did he know her too? Was it a simple case of mistaken identity? And if so, how could his coming to my studio be a coincidence?

I heard footsteps on the stairs outside and got to my feet. I swung the door open right as Iann reached the landing.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you eat already?” He stepped inside and kissed me.

“No, but I’m not hungry.” I closed the door. “I need to talk to you.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked, taking off his jacket and setting it on the desk chair.

I shook my head and sat on the bed. “No. It’s been a weird day. I don’t know how to tell you everything.”

He furrowed his brow. “What happened?” He settled on the bed beside me and placed a warm hand on my back.

“Do you remember that murder I told you about? The one in this neighborhood?” It had inevitably come up weeks ago when Wilder had paid me a visit right as Iann drove up.

He nodded.

“That detective—Wilder—asked me to come in and identify someone yesterday.”

Iann’s eyes widened. “Wow, so they caught the guy?”

My stomach dropped. “I don’t know,” I said. “I recognized him, but I don’t know if that was the person I saw in the alley. But Iann . . .” I turned to face him. “The guy they’re investigating is Jeremy.”

His expression darkened, and he stood up. “What?” He paced in front of me. “How?”

“He used to date the girl who died. That’s all I know.”

Iann looked at me. “I can’t believe it.” He leaned against the drafting table.

“I need to tell Erin.”

He shook his head. “Do the police know for sure?”

I fidgeted with my hands. “No, but—”

“Then wait. Telling her now would just freak her out.” He looked straight ahead into the kitchen as if he were far away.

“Did you know Holly?” I asked.

He turned back to me, his eyes unreadable.

“Holly Bascom? She’s the girl that was murdered—Jeremy’s ex.”

“No,” he said, gripping the back of the chair as he shifted forward on his feet. “I mean I don’t really know anything about him outside of school. It’s still shocking, though. He seemed like an okay guy.”

My phone buzzed nearby. My heart dropped when I saw the screen. Wilder. “I need to take this,” I said before answering. “Hello?”

“We had to let him go.”

I couldn’t speak.

“We couldn’t detain him forever, and without any more evidence—” Wilder sighed. “I just wanted to let you know.”