The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(42)

In that moment, I worried that I would open my mouth, that it would all come pouring out. How horribly I had behaved, and for how long. How much damage I had done. As though I would confess to the first person who asked.

Jessa saved me from myself.

“That was useful for you.” When alone with me, her way of speaking had begun to mirror my own. She was clipped, precise, hoarser. It was clear that she was taking a new acting class, and that I was the current object of her study.

At that moment, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to pretend to be me.

Imagine your father is sitting across that table, I told myself. Be bloodless, and just like that I was again. “The information about the Virtuoso School? Yes, it was useful to me.”

“Did you learn anything about them? Penny and Natalie?”

In fact, I had learned quite a bit. I opened my mouth, then hesitated. “Is it too much for me to ask how you plan to use this information?”

“I imagine the way you use money. As currency.” She waited for effect, then blinked her blue eyes rapidly. I wondered if I did that too before launching into an explanation. “These girls are my competition. A rumor can be useful. Knowing their flaws, their foibles. I hoard the best ones, though, and if I’m short on money, I sell those secrets to TMZ.”

We regarded each other. To be honest, her imitation of me was unsettling enough that I was having trouble thinking.

Was this what I seemed like to strangers?

I put that idea on to simmer while I told Jessa what I’d learned. That Natalie believed in God and prayed silently when she felt she was losing at cards; her faith was personal enough that she kept a small cross necklace not around her neck but in her pocket, where her hand returned to it like a worry stone. Penny had an older sister she worshipped. It was clear that the boots she was wearing had a previous owner, and they were (1) half a size too big; (2) made too recently to be vintage; (3) five years out of fashion. The sister had worn the boots for something practical, perhaps horseback riding (the sole was worn in the place where something like a stirrup would go) but Penny wore them for love. Perhaps the sister was dead. I couldn’t tell from the data at hand.

“That’s it?” Jessa said, when I’d finished. She was frustrated enough to revert back to being herself, much to my mixed disappointment and relief. “No habits, or addictions, or exes, or . . . ?”

Natalie was bulimic. Penny had a girlfriend back home she wanted no one to know about. Natalie, at some point in her life, had lost over a hundred pounds, and quickly; she had stretch marks, slight ones, when her crop top rode up over her pants. Penny wanted to quit the business after her contract was up, perhaps (this was a surmise) to spend more time with her beloved sister. (Perhaps the sister was not dead, but dying? I needed more time to observe her.) Neither of them ever wanted to play poker with us ever again.

Jessa made her own money now, through royalties and residuals. She was not “short on cash” in any meaningful way, despite what her selling secrets to tabloids would suggest. At the very least she didn’t need me to ruin two girls’ lives to keep herself away from her mother and her own ruined past.

“No,” I said to Jessa’s disgruntled face, “that’s everything,” and I knew I would never play poker with her again either.

How much damage I had done. How much damage I would continue to do.

On the street, I checked my phone again. My Sherringford source had written me one last message. It’s on your head, it said. As though that was a new thing.

My heart rate had slowed. I wouldn’t go to Penn Station tonight. I wouldn’t head into Sherringford, guns blazing, on some supposition. I would go home and force myself to “feel things” about my past for thirty minutes, on a timer, and I would continue with my plan, as it was the best way to keep Jamie Watson safe.

Safer than August had ever been.

Safe from me.

I lit a cigarette, the first I’d allowed myself in weeks. I had money. I had eaten food I hadn’t had to pay for. It was late, and I was actually tired, and in the morning, I had an interview with Starway Airlines. I had quite a bit of prep to do.





Thirteen


Jamie


DETECTIVE SHEPARD HAD GONE THROUGH LENA’S PHONE while she stood there, arms crossed, rolling her eyes. “I thought you actually, like, wanted to make a call.”

He scrolled again through her texts, her missed and received call log, her contacts, and then he tossed her mobile back. Because she was Lena, she caught it neatly with one hand. “Just was a little too good to be true,” he said. “You disappeared. Then immediately, Ms. Williamson got that phone call from the gallery with a confession.”

“Serendipity,” she said, and wound up her scarf. “It’s an SAT word. Look, since it’s a school night and everything, I should go home. Jamie, text me or something tomorrow, okay?” She waved good-bye and left.

Everyone else had left too. My father was warming up the car in the parking lot. The detective zipped up his parka, looking out over the snowy quad. “I’m not going to say it’s good to see you again,” he said.

I shivered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really want to be in this mess either. I am happy, though, that you’re working the case.” I meant it. I had always liked Detective Shepard; he was smart, and determined, and flexible enough to work with me and Holmes. I just wished I wasn’t always the person he was investigating.