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“So you just happened to confront your husband’s mistress less than two weeks before she was found dead in her home?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “Coincidence, I guess.”
His eyes dart down to my hand again, then back at me.
“Is this why you’re here?” I ask at last, trying to sound exasperated. Trying to act as though the idea of me having anything to do with this is ridiculous, impossible. Too far-fetched to even entertain. “To question me about a murder?”
Dozier stares at me for another second before he lets out a sigh, shaking his head.
“No,” he says at last. “I’m here because that client also gave us a name.”
“A name,” I repeat, trying to hide my confusion. This isn’t how I expected this conversation to go. “Whose name?”
“The name of a woman who also used to attend the group but stopped coming after Mason’s disappearance,” he says. “A woman who was unable to have children.”
My eyes are drilling into his now, remembering those words Valerie had said. The justification for what she did, as if she were doing the world a favor.
“There are so many people out there who would love to have a child.”
“He didn’t think much of it at first, but after learning about Valerie’s death and then hearing about her affair with your husband, he decided to call it in.”
It takes a second to register, but finally, I realize what he’s trying to tell me: A woman going missing at the exact same time as Mason. A woman who wanted kids and couldn’t have them. A woman who knew Valerie.
“So what does this mean?” I ask, edging myself to the very end of the couch. “Who is she?”
“I don’t want you getting ahead of yourself,” he says, holding his palm out. He digs his other hand into his back pocket, pulling out a small picture. “It could be nothing, but we’re looking into it. Does this woman look familiar to you? Or does the nameAbigail Fisherring a bell?”
I grab the picture and stare at the woman: her mousey brown hair and unassuming eyes. She looks a little older than me—mid-forties, maybe—and I massage the name in my mind, trying to place it. I’ve sifted through so many names over these last twelve months—and that’s when my neck snaps up, my eyes on my dining room. I stand up and walk toward the table, the TrueCrimeCon attendee list still tacked up on the wall.
“Abigail Fisher,” I say, my finger tapping hard against the name when I find it. I try to tamp down the hopeful beating in my chest, but the excitement is palpable in my voice now. A giddiness I can’t contain. “Right here. Abigail Fisher. She was at the conference.”
I look at Dozier, then back down at the picture, and that’s when I realize: the eyes. I’ve seen those eyes before. I remember the way they grew so damp and distant, tears glistening as she watched me on stage, mouthing my every word.
“Oh my God,” I say, rushing over to my laptop and throwing it open. I remember pulling up that article and studying the picture of the audience; the way the camera flash had made their eyes glow, turning them into something ethereal and strange.
The way that woman’s gaze had made me physically shiver, like my body was reacting to some kind of danger my mind couldn’t yet understand.
“Abigail Fisher,” I say again, my heart thumping too hard in my chest as the article loads. Once it does, I twist around and tap at the screen, my fingers dancing wildly, watching Dozier’s expression shiftas he processes it, too: his gaze moving from me to the audience, then zeroing in on her. His eyes darting back and forth between the woman in the front row and the woman in the picture he gave me.
The room is quiet for a beat longer, the hugeness of this moment settling over us both. Finally, after all this time, we have a face. A name. A chance.
“Abigail Fisher,” he repeats, nodding his head in a resigned rhythm. “That’s her.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
ONE WEEK LATER
I hear a buzz and glance up, watching as the bulky metal door swings open. My eyes are stinging. Not from sleep, though—or rather, the lack thereof—but from the cheap, fluorescent bulbs above me. From the harsh light of this place.
“Isabelle Drake?”
I glance at the prison guard in front of the door and I raise my hand, smiling meekly. The gash on my palm has healed slightly now, no longer a gaping wound but a thin, puckered scab. I can still see Dozier’s eyes on it, onme, trying to piece it all together in my living room that day. Trying to assemble all the clues into the perfect pattern to make a picture form.
“Last thing,” he had said, swinging around as I escorted him to the door. He couldn’t stop staring at it: that bloody cut on my palm. He was thinking, I’m sure, of Valerie’s lifeless body over that mountain of glass; of those shards, sharp and jagged, and the temper he had seen in me himself. The way it could flare up at any second, leaving me in a blind rage.
“Valerie took a lot from you,” he said, shifting his weight fromone leg to the other like he was suddenly uncomfortable. “How does that make you feel?”
I stared at him blankly, the understatement of the century.
