One of Those Faces (76)

I smiled to myself and grabbed the wire hangers from the top of the drawer and started hanging his things up. I didn’t need an entire half of the closet for my wardrobe. I picked up the drawer but paused right before setting it back into its place. In the empty void where it had sat in the dresser was a small stack of pictures. I placed the drawer down on the floor and reached for them, my heart suddenly racing.

It was Iann in high school regalia, the graduation cap pushing his dark, straight hair against his forehead. I sighed in relief. It wasn’t an embarrassing picture. If that was him at his most awkward, he had lived a more blessed life than I’d realized. I shuffled to the next picture. It was his whole family smiling at the camera with a scenic mountain view behind them, his arms around the shoulders of his laughing sisters. It was identical to the photo he had hanging on the bulletin board in his office at school. I flipped to the next one and froze.

I was staring into my eyes. But it wasn’t a picture of me.

Jenny?

No, the hair color was darker, and her hair was curly like mine, pulled back into a messy ponytail, loose curls escaping past her ears. She was looking over her shoulder at the camera, one hand reaching for something in her backpack, a thick background of green forest behind her.

I sank to the floor, letting the pictures drop and fan out. I flipped to the next one. High school Iann and the girl standing and posing at the beach, their feet hidden in the sand, his arm wrapped around the bare, tan skin between her two-piece swimsuit. I tossed the photo to the side. They were smiling, their hands laced together, the same mountain view as the family picture in the background. As I traced the familiar shape of her eyes and the length of her nose, I couldn’t deny it.

Something deep within me erupted. The worst years of my life were an echo of this moment, doomed to repeat.

You are just a copy.

I rattled the thought from my head and dropped the picture, my hands shaking.

The front door closed, and Leo’s paws scraped along the floor. “Hey, boy,” Iann said in a high tone, muffled by the walls between us.

I waited, the girl’s eyes mocking me from the photo.

The bedroom door swung open. “Hey, you finally brought another box!” he rejoiced, poking his head into the closet. His eyes flickered and widened as they drifted from me to the pictures strewed across the floor.

“Who is this?” I couldn’t feel my mouth move, but somehow the question came out.

His expression darkened. “Were you going through my stuff?” he asked, stepping into the closet, towering over me.

I searched for the reason why. Why was I there again? How had I found these? “The drawer broke because all of your shit was piled into it,” I snapped.

He glanced at the drawer beside me.

“Who is this?” I repeated.

His eyes lingered on the photo. “Alayna,” he said in a quiet voice. He bent down and picked it up.

I waited for more, my skin lighting on fire.

“We were—she was my high school girlfriend,” he continued, looking at the photos. “She died the summer before we were supposed to leave for Chicago together.”

I stood, my pulse picking up and drumming in my ears. This was the secret he’d been clinging to. Condolences didn’t come to mind, only accusations. “Why were you hiding these?” My voice was loud but cold.

He set the photos on top of the dresser. “I wasn’t hiding them—I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t want you thinking I was hanging on to all of that.” He’d misunderstood. He thought I was just acting like a typical jealous bitch. I didn’t care if he was over Alayna.

“She looks exactly like me, Iann,” I said through clenched teeth.

He held my gaze. “What does that matter?”

“If it doesn’t matter, then why wouldn’t you mention it?”

“Everyone dates people that look like their exes,” he fired back. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Maybe in the sense that they’re all brunettes or blondes or whatever, but not to the extent they look exactly like your dead girlfriend,” I yelled. “That’s not normal.”

He looked away from me. I was cutting open an old scar with a dagger. But I had scars too.

I went deeper. “Is that the reason you came up and talked to me?” I demanded.

He met my eyes. “What?” His brow was furrowed, and his arms tensed by his sides.

“The day we met, is this the only reason you approached me? Because I look like Alayna?” I swallowed the hard lump forming in my throat. The backs of my eyes were stinging.

He didn’t look at me. “Harper,” he said, slowly. “This doesn’t mean anything. What will it take for you to move past this?”

His pause already gave me the answer I’d dreaded. “You’re the psych professor.” I scowled. “You figure it out.” I turned on my heel and grabbed my coat and bag from the bed before stalking past Leo. My ears were ringing and my vision blurring at the edges with tears as I reached the front door.

I couldn’t look back.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


I turned my phone over in my hand. I had sat in that same seat at the bar across from the police station for over two hours, my muscles easing with each sip from my glass. I couldn’t even be sure if Wilder had returned to his downtown office or if he was still working out of Bucktown.