You Can't Catch Me(26)

“What?”

“Check it out.”

Liam looks out the window and winces.

“Great location you picked here,” I say.

“It’ll be fine.”

“If you say so. Anyway, not much to go on. A light-haired and light-eyed girl around my age and my height and weight, give or take ten pounds. This could be me.”

Liam’s eyes rest on mine. “Is it?”

“What? No.”

He laughs. “Gotcha.”

“Not funny. But how did you know it wasn’t?”

“Because of this,” he says, taking hold of my wrist and turning it over, then pushing up the long sleeves I almost always wear. I’ve got a bad scar on my wrist—a burn that travels across my tendons and is visibly raised from my skin. He traces it gently, then drops my arm quickly. I shift my arm up reflexively, holding it against my body.

“You can see the underside of her wrist clearly in one of the photos,” he says. “It would be hard to cover up your scar with makeup.”

It is hard to cover up. I gave up trying long ago.

“So, Todd saved me from your suspicions. Thanks, Todd.”

He turns away, and I know I’ve done it again.

“I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s fine.”

I reach out and touch his arm. “Hey, Liam. Thanks for today. All of it. I appreciate it.”

“Even Schroon?”

“Even Schroon.”

He looks skeptical as he pats my hand, then stands. “We should eat, then get some sleep. Long drive tomorrow.”

I agree because I’ve done enough damage.

But I’m not going back tomorrow. I’m going forward.

Hours later I’m lying in my bed, trying to ignore the full fucking party that’s going on in the parking lot. The level in the bottle of Canadian Club is lower, but if I drink any more I’m going to regret it in the morning. Liam went to sleep an hour ago after the baseball game finished (another loss), but I can’t help but ask.

“You awake?”

“Mmm.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m sleeping.”

I stare at the ceiling, listening to his breathing. The scar on my wrist feels like it’s throbbing, but it’s not because it hurts. It’s because I want to get up and slip into the bed two feet away and throw caution to the wind. Peel my T-shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor. Rest my lips against his neck and throw my leg over his hip and . . . I’m starting to sweat. I have no idea how Liam would react to any of that, and my best guess is rejection, so I try to distract myself from the vivid fantasy in my brain by logging on to Facebook on my phone to see if there are any updates on my post.

There’s nothing, but there is a message from someone named JJ.

I saw your message. What do you want?

I click through to her page. Her privacy settings are at the max, so all that’s there is a picture of her in a chef’s hat and her location: Philadelphia. I google: Philly, chef, JJ. A bunch of links come up, including several to YouTube videos.

“Hey, Liam,” I say very quietly as I slip on my headphones and plug them into my phone. “I’m watching YouTube.”

He doesn’t react. He probably can’t hear me over the thumping Ariana Grande.

JJ’s a chef with a YouTube channel that has over a million followers. I watch one of her videos. She’s an army vet, and lost part of her left arm in combat, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She’s relentlessly positive and clearly loves what she’s doing. Eighteen months ago, there was a large profile on her in the Philadelphia Inquirer. All about how she’d become a successful YouTube star, with an annual revenue of over a million dollars.

Uh-oh.

I head back to Facebook and type: Is your name Jessica Williams?

She reads and answers it quickly.

Yes.

Have you met someone else with the same name?

Yes.

Were you born on July 10, 1990?

Again, yes. That’s what your message said.

Why else would I write you?

Just confirming.

Well, it’s confirmed.

Did this other JW steal your money?

There’s a pause, then: Yes. You?

Yes.

When? she writes.

Recently, I write. A couple of weeks ago. You?

18 months, four days.

Did you go to the police?

Of course. They were useless.

Same.

I’m not going to them again, she writes.

Me either.

So why are you writing me, then?

I have a plan.

Oh?

Yeah, but it’s . . . can we come see you?

What do you mean, “we”?

I found another Jessica.

A long pause this time. Then: Okay. But please don’t tell anyone you’re coming.

Why?

She hasn’t been in touch with you?

I think of the texts I sent to Jessica Two. She hasn’t responded yet. And maybe she won’t. I check my text threads to be sure. No answer. I text her again. I’m going to find you. I blame the Canadian Club.

No, I write to JJ. She hasn’t been in touch.

She will be.

What did she do to you?

It doesn’t matter. Just promise me you’ll be careful.