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“She doesn’t belong here,” he says. “Not like we do.” He pauses and makes a face. “Sorry. That sounded like an insult to you. It’s not. I just mean...”
“Why is she here?” I say.
What is a woman like Celeste doing in Fort Exile, pretending to be me? Before I arrived, the answer seemed obvious. A house. An inheritance. Maybe even a phony treasure. But I remember my surprise on seeing her for the first time. I expected...
Well, I expected someone more like me if I’d followed in my dad’s footsteps. An ordinary woman, with edges and issues. I expected her to be the living embodiment of the role I’ve been playing, a woman down on her luck and living rough. Then she met my grandmother and saw an opportunity. Get a roof over her head and a bit of money to boot.
Except there’s no money. There’s barely a roof. And Celeste is a cultured and attractive woman, one that Liam had no problem introducing to his friends.
“You think she’s in trouble.” I look at him. “Hiding.”
He makes a face. “Please don’t give this woman a tragic backstory that makes me feel sorry for her.”
When I don’t answer, he says, “Daisy?”
I only dimly hear him, and it isn’t until he says, “CeCe?” that I snap out of it.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Sorry, I’m...” I look down and give a tight laugh. “Standing over the body of a murdered man and trying to figure out what his girlfriend is running from. Not important, obviously.”
“It’s a shock. But, yes, you need to report the Rover. The more time...”
“The more time that elapses between leaving Celeste and making this call, the more our timeline doesn’t work. Yes, call, please.”
He waves for me to follow him.
I hesitate. “Our footprints—”
“—will be gone in an hour or so. The ground’s too wet to hold them. Now come on, and let’s do this.”
Celeste
“I don’t understand.”
It’s the third time I’ve said that, the repetition buzzing in my head. I want to take it back and find a new way to word it.
As a child, I dreamed of being a comic-book creator. I could draw, and I could tell stories, and someday I’d do exactly that. Instead, I do graphic design, creating logos and social media banners, and if I ever get the chance to write, it’s on the rare occasions I’m asked to provide copy. More often, I’m given the copy, and then I show off my writing skills.
You’ve repeated sale three times in thirty words. Let’s try a synonym.
Your wording is overly complicated here. Let’s simplify.
“Ms. Turner?”
I look into the dark eyes of the young officer, and without thinking, I flinch. My gut seizes, seeing a cop, my defenses thrown up.
He’s not here for you.
He’s here about Liam.
“Ms. Turner?”
I stare, uncomprehending.
Turner. That’s your name, remember?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m...” I give my head a sharp shake.
“In shock,” he says. “But there’s no need to be. We only found his vehicle. There’s no sign of foul play.”
