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I struggle up from the couch and wander over to the table, staring down at my collage. The scrap of paper with “owed” scrawled on it seems to stand out from everything else that’s been glued to the page. I think back to the idea of hush money. What if one of the so-called lies C.J. told me—like taking the law school admission test for a sick friend—was, as I suspected the other day, actually true?
On my phone, I pull up his obit again and double-check thename of the college he attended: Bowdoin. If he’d been hoping to go to law school the fall after graduating, he would have taken the LSAT during his senior year, which means that if he did pose as a friend of his, that person might have been at Bowdoin with him.
A memory blooms, making my breath catch. At our first meeting, Bradley Kane said he’d gone to the same college as C.J., and the two shared mutual friends. Had the two been closer than he admitted? Is it possible that C.J. took the LSATs for him? I think back to the photo Kane had showed me of him, C.J., and three other guys on the day of a regatta. Though the two men would hardly have been considered dead ringers, they were both tall, clean-cut, sandy-haired white guys. It’s possible C.J. could’ve impersonated him.
I’ve been suspicious of Bradley Kane on and off from the moment he called me, and now it seems that there could be a reason. Perhaps it’s not Jane Whaley who’s been wreaking havoc in my life.
33
Now
IWAKE THE NEXT MORNING WITH WHAT FEELS LIKE A MASSIVEhangover—a pounding headache, queasy stomach, and jittery limbs. Raising myself onto one elbow, I snap on the bedside lamp. In the light that it casts I see that the top sheet is coiled like a rope from the thrashing I did in my sleep.
What I want more than anything is to flop back onto the bed, return to unconsciousness, and escape from the dumpster fire that my life has become. But I’ve promised myself I’m going to take control, and I have too much to do. I swing my legs gingerly over the edge of the mattress and drop my feet to the floor.
As soon as I’ve fed Tuna and made coffee, I send a text to James Tremlin. I need to give him an update before I even begin to tackle the Whaley situation,
Hi James, it’s Skyler Moore, the collage artist you interviewed. Would you mind giving me a call? I need to talk to you as soon as possible.
It’s possible Josh will remember to contact him, but I’ve got no guarantee. I have to tell him myself that the pieces aren’t being displayed at the gallery and there’s no reason for him to drop by. I have photos of all the collages, so maybe he’d be willing to look at those—and still include me in the story.
Next I text Mikoto.
Sorry to be rude last night. I was just so upset. But I really appreciate your interest in the show and hope I can make it up to you. In the meantime, any chance I could ask your advice again?
I hear back from her as I’m toweling off from a shower. She tells me she understands and adds that though she’s got class all morning, she’ll be back for lunch and suggests bringing over Chinese takeout. I tell her yes, to just order me whatever she’s having; I’m eager to run my LSAT theory by her, but I’m also craving the comfort her company always seems to bring.
Midmorning, I’m in the middle of cleaning my bedroom, just to stay busy, when Josh calls me.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” he asks. He’s back to smooth, sales-y Josh, with all the frantic energy purged from his voice.
“Pretty awful still.”
“I would have called you first thing, but I wanted to touch base with the police first.”
“You spoke to them already?”
“Yeah, but it’s not good news. The guy at the nearest precinct said I can drop by later and fill out a report, but he doubts there’s much they can do. Welcome to New York City.”
“They can’t take fingerprints or anything like that?”
“Based on the amount of damage and the moderate value of theart, he doesn’t see that happening. He did ask if we had cameras and I explained that we’d never felt the need, but that reminded me of the sketch you have. Once I’ve filed the report, maybe you should go to the precinct yourself and explain the situation more fully.”
“I will, that’s a good idea,” I tell him. “H-How did the event turn out?”
“We had a good turnout, and we ended up selling almost all the photographs. Some people did ask where the second exhibit was, but they seemed to take the explanation in stride. A friend of yours was looking for you, by the way, and he seemed really sorry your stuff wasn’t on display.”
My skin prickles. “What did he look like?”
“Midforties, tall guy, dark-haired. With a fairly thick accent. Maybe Spanish?”
Sounds like it could have been Alejandro, though I never mentioned the show to him. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I have to jump on another call, but let’s talk later and figure out next steps.”
He’s sounding a little more sympathetic than he did last night, but I still sense he’s relieved that this appears to be a matter I’ve brought on myself.
“One more thing: Are you around tomorrow? I thought I could have Nell drop off the collages in the morning so you could... well, take another look and decide what you want to do.”
