One of Those Faces (5)

Erin poured the rest of the bottle into her glass. “Yeah. They still haven’t caught the person who killed her.”

This didn’t alarm me much. It was Chicago, after all. “I’m not too worried about it. I mean, my place is just fifteen minutes from here.”

“It doesn’t take long to get murdered.”

I choked on my next sip of wine. “Maybe I’ll take an Uber, then.”

Erin smiled darkly. “What if the murderer is an Uber driver?”

“What are you talking about?”

She laughed. “I have no idea.” Her lips were growing darker from the stain of wine. “Full disclosure, I pregamed with a few glasses while you were teaching.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I heard she was strangled.” As a true-crime aficionado, Erin lived in the gory details. “It sounds like it was really brutal.”

Of all the horrible ways to die, I had always imagined suffocating or drowning to be the worst. Maybe it was because I always remembered Issi’s swollen neck and her face contorted in pain. I saw her eyes as I blinked, cold and gazing at me in quiet terror. “I really need to head out. I’m exhausted.” I stood up so quickly that the chair almost fell behind me.

Erin sighed. “Okay. Well, I drank too much, so I’m going to have to clean up in the morning.” She shrugged and rose to her feet. “Do you need a ride?” She laughed as she patted her pockets for her keys.

My cheeks burned, and my head started to rush a little. “How much did you drink? I’m not getting in a car with you. Come on, let’s walk together.” She lived only a few blocks south of my place.

Erin nodded and tossed the wine bottles into the recycling bin with a crash as I grabbed my bag and swung it over my shoulder.

We stepped out into the alley, and I reached in past the door to turn off the lights. Erin fumbled with the keys to lock up. I looked into the darkness behind the building. It was quiet overall, but I could hear the sounds of crowds laughing and a jumble of drums and horns in the background. There was usually some kind of street performance going on. The sound of dogs barking nearby cut through the music.

My body tensed as something moved in the dark near the entrance to the street.

“Okay,” Erin exclaimed. “All locked up—let’s go!” She seemed to be getting tipsier by the minute. “Do you want to stop by the Bearded Monk on the way home?”

“No, I just want to get into bed and pass out,” I said, turning back toward the street as we started walking.

“It’s only ten o’clock!”

Something dark shuffled again by the street. It fluttered on the ground by the dumpster. “Did you see that?” I pointed to the end of the alley as we continued toward it.

Erin’s eyes got big. “The murderer . . .,” she said in a low, mocking voice.

I pushed past her to the street, the dark fluttering continuing on the sidewalk. I bent over and squinted. It was a red scarf with one end pinned under the dumpster, the rest of it blowing violently in the wind. “No murderer,” I called back at Erin. “Let’s go.”

She scurried over to me, and we stepped out of the dark alley and joined the lively throngs congregating on Damen Avenue. Once we were in front of the buildings, I could hear the saxophone and drummer playing Beatles covers on the corner.

“I love these guys!” Erin exclaimed and ran ahead of me in the crosswalk, shaking her hands above her head and cheering, startling the saxophone player. He glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows, his lips curling into a smile over the reed.

“Wow.” I grabbed her shoulders and steered her away down the sidewalk. “That wine really went to your head. Maybe we should get you some food?”

She laughed. “No, I know them! I’m fine.”

The jazz followed us, the breeze drifting the notes through the humidity. The cool air wove through my knit sweater, bringing me some relief in my thick garb.

“So, what else happened with that guy tonight?” I asked once we were safely past the group tapping their feet on the corner and tossing dollars into the sax case.

Erin smirked. “We’re going out tomorrow after the last class.”

“He’s taking another class?” I asked, dodging a passing couple on the sidewalk.

“No, he’s swinging by afterward.”

“He’s exactly your type.”

She nodded. “I know. His name’s Jeremy.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “He has a motorcycle.”

I remembered the call from Iann earlier and his calming voice. “Have you wondered why so many guys come to the studio?”

“You mean so many hot guys?” she emphasized. “I don’t know. Wicker Park’s known for art stuff. I guess there are more painter guys in this area? Or . . .” She glanced at me sidelong. “Maybe it’s because our studio has a gorgeous, mysterious teacher.”

“You mean Hannah?” I asked. Hannah was one of the alternate teachers who came in on the nights I didn’t or when I was sick. She was a retired art professor pushing eighty and somehow an even less enthusiastic teacher than I was. She’d mastered a disinterested scowl to a degree I could only aspire to.

Erin burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said when she could breathe again. “Hannah’s the stud magnet.”