You Can't Catch Me(42)

“Applying on your behalf would be easy for her,” I say.

“For anyone, really. It’s not like they check ID when you’re offering up your money.”

A group of girls who are clearly part of a bachelorette party tumble into the bar. The bride’s got a toilet paper veil on her head, and her eyes are already moving in separate directions.

“Good point,” I say. “When did she contact you?”

“On the way home. There was a group transport to the airport, which meant I got to the airport about four hours before my flight.”

“So you went to the bar?” I ask.

“That where you met her—an airport bar?”

“Yep,” I say. “Not Jessie, but they did go for a drink.”

“So, she likes to drink,” JJ says. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Not unique.”

“She drank scotch,” Jessie says.

“That right? I guess she likes scotch.”

“How did she make the connection?” I ask. “About the name.”

“As simple as introducing ourselves.”

“And then you played the game?”

“Jessica Williams Twenty Questions? Yes.”

“And a few days later, you were missing a bunch of money.”

“That too.”

Jessie pulls a pad of paper out of her purse. “We should get all the details, right? Like you did with me? See what we can match up.”

“In a minute,” I say. “I’m curious about something else first.”

“What’s that?” JJ asks. She’s almost drowned out by the loud laughter of the bachelorette party two tables over. They’ve all got pieces of paper in their hands, comparing notes about something they find hilarious.

Sometimes lives intersect at the oddest moments. I don’t ever see myself in their position, laughing without care the night before a wedding, especially not my own.

“What else did she do to you?” I ask.

JJ leans back, holding her empty glass against her chest. “She made sure I’d keep my mouth shut. Or that if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.”

“How?”

“By destroying my credibility.”

“Why would she do that?” Jessie asks.

“Probably because I was trying to track her down.”

“How?” I ask.

“I knew this guy in army intelligence, and he was working on tracing the money transfers. She must’ve gotten an alert.”

“What happened then?”

JJ takes out her phone. “It’ll be easier to show you than explain.” She opens her photo app and scrolls through her photos. “I screenshot it all, so I’d have proof even though I had to delete a bunch of my social accounts.”

She passes me the phone. It’s a picture of a tweet JJ sent out using some super offensive language about the locals she encountered in Afghanistan, saying that she was happy about what she’d done to them.

“I didn’t tweet that,” she says.

“Jessica Two?” Jessie says.

“Of course.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“What do you think? It blew up. I lost sponsors, cancel culture . . . you know. I had to go in person to each of them and explain what happened to me, not that it made much difference. And then I got this.” She takes her phone back and goes to her texts. She hands it to me again and I read it.

Don’t try to find me, it says, or this is just the beginning.

Back in another anonymous hotel room, I don’t know what my next step should be.

Jessie and I left JJ about an hour ago. We found a cheap motel nearby and booked into two separate rooms. JJ didn’t offer to let us stay with her.

“She doesn’t want us to know where she lives,” Jessie says as we stand in front of our separate doors. We’re somewhere near a highway, and the buzz of cars zooming along pavement fills the night.

“Trust no one,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I go through my nightly routine in a desultory way, mulling over the events of the day. At Jessie’s urging, JJ told us that Jessica Two had given similar details about her life to the ones she gave to me and to Jessie. JJ’s Jessica had blonde beachy waves and green eyes, but she couldn’t remember much else. She didn’t have any photographs; Jessica Two had been able to do the transfers without going into the bank. JJ said she’d been pretty, friendly, and sympathetic. All the hallmarks of a good grifter.

I change into my pajamas, pull back the cheap sheets, and lie on my back. Another cracked ceiling, though the patterns are different. My body is tired, but my brain’s awake—not a good sign for sleeping. My phone buzzes. It’s Liam asking how things are going. I start a text, then change my mind and call.

“Hey,” he says. His voice sounds worn out—his after-midnight voice—which I know from shadowing him on stakeouts and when I used to help him with late-night sessions with new members of The Twists who needed company to keep the nightmares at bay. We’ve drifted apart over the last couple of years. It’s only now that we’re back in regular contact that I realize how much I’ve missed him.