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“Those.” Eyes still bleary from the exam, I pointed at the nearest pair of black non-wire-rimmed glasses. “You can add them to my bill.”
“You don’t want to try them on?” She frowned at me, pretty face creasing and blonde hair swishing forward. “Those are all wrong for your face shape.”
“What do you think would look best?” I found a little piece of my old charm, smiling at her and managing a chipper, conspiratorial tone. “I hate decisions.”
“Poor you.” She headed right for the racks of sample glasses, far more confident than me as she browsed the carousels of frames, spinning one until she came up with a pair that made her smile. “These. Definitely these.”
They had a subtle tortoiseshell pattern on the top edges and clear rims on the bottom, a two-tone effect that felt more trendy than my last backup pair. The sharp corners gave the glasses a certain professorial air, but I dutifully tried them on. I squinted at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like Danny Love, uber-nerd from Geek Chorus, but I also wasn’t sure who I did look like. Smart. Grown up. Uncertain, I turned toward Cash, who had put his phone away and was watching the receptionist and me.
“Cash? What do you think?” I asked.
“Very nice.” He nodded at me. “You look older.”
“Your bodyguard has good taste.” The receptionist didn’t try to hide the gleam in her eye as she gave Cash a very deliberate once-over. Yet again, I opened my mouth to correct her, but no sound came out.
“Thanks.” Cash shrugged lazily and, thank God, didn’t seem to return her interest. Which was something, but I still felt weird as she rung me up and sent me on my way with a bag of contacts and a promise to call in a few days when the glasses were ready. Unable to shake the uneasy feeling, I ducked into the restroom to exchange my current backup glasses for the contacts.
“Sorry if that was awkward,” I said to Cash as we made our way back to the car. “The receptionist assuming you were my bodyguard and all.”
“Nah. People assuming you have more security isn’t a bad thing.” He unlocked the Jeep for us, way less put out than I was, which only worsened my out of sorts feeling. Maybe the cabin and everything that had happened truly were behind us. “Whatever keeps you safe. Let’s get the police station over with so we can get you fed. It’s been a long day already.”
“It has.”
The day only got longer at the police station. The local precinct for my neighborhood was a low brown brick building, and the lobby was a study in more brown—brown plastic chairs, sticky brown tile floor with a brown star in the center with the precinct number, brown reception counter with a metal top, and bored brunette receptionist with a brown polo shirt. She had us wait until Detective McIntyre came to fetch us.
He was older with slicked-back black hair, a gravelly voice, and a no-nonsense demeanor that made it seem like our presence was an unwanted interruption he needed to be done with as fast as possible. He reeled off the usual disclaimers I’d seen on cop shows, like how I could have a lawyer present and how I was there of my own free will. I nodded along, but it was tough to pay close attention. The detective then talked me through how the lineup worked, and I tried harder to focus on the instructions. However, I didn’t see anyone remotely recognizable in any of the three variations he paraded through, nor did any of the photos in a binder he showed me jump out at me.
“I’m sorry. I don’t recognize anyone,” I said for the millionth time as we sat at a small table in a lonely-looking bare conference room. The binder was between us while Cash sat silently next to me. The detective had made it clear he’d rather talk to me alone, but he had grudgingly allowed Cash to stay. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone you’ve shown me before.”
“That’s quite all right.” Detective McIntyre snapped the binder shut and pulled out a notepad. “I’d like to go over your movements in the last month.”
“I mainly stayed home.” I wracked my brain for specific trips out of the house, but my mind felt fuzzy, my ability to focus in short supply the more nervous I became.
“So you’ve said.” He clicked his pen open and shut. “But you have friends, correct?”
“None I can remember seeing last month.” A bead of sweat rolled down my back.
“And your online contacts?”
“Don’t have many of those anymore either. I’ve got people whose statuses I like and former friends who always drop comments on my posts, but it’s not really friendship.” The last few days with Cash had shown me what true friendship was—unconditional acceptance, long conversations with real meaning, working side-by-side with someone, and actual support, not simply clicks on an app.
