a private benefactor. No one’s allowed on the land, so maybe it’s the perfect hiding place.”
“Why are you telling me this? Do you want to investigate?”
“No. I don’t think the money’s out there. But if that’s the reason you came to Holden, it’s worth a shot.” I shrug. “Plus, you’re a gardener. You’re used to getting your hands dirty.”
He twines our fingers and turns his wrist so my palm is the one facing up, the skin smooth and clean. “And you’re not?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Chris is the first one to break our stare, turning his face as he laughs.
“What?” I pull away my hand.
“You’re hilarious.”
“I am?”
“Of course. You have your hands in people’s dirty mouths all day.”
Oh. Right. Denise is a dental assistant.
I force myself to look at him, to find something in the grooves around his smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A roadmap. Something that says I’m right and he’s wrong. But I can’t see it.
“Do you mind if I do something?” I ask.
He looks surprised. “Okay. What?”
Before he can react, I pull out my phone and snap a picture. The bar is dim enough that the flash goes off, earning me a few unwelcome glares, but I ignore them and study the screen. I captured him perfectly. I might not know his job, possibly not even his name, but I know his face. So someone else might.
He blinks rapidly, dazed. It’s the first time in this whole relationship that I’ve truly caught him off guard. “What’s happening?”
I concentrate on my phone, adding his picture to his contact. “I needed a picture to go with your phone number,” I say. “How am I supposed to know which Chris is calling?”
He rubs his eyes. “You have a lot of Chrises in there?”
“I have a lot of everybodys. I’m very popular.”
“Well,” he says, reaching for his phone, resting on the table. “Turnabout’s fair play.”
I snag his wrist before he can take a shot. “No.”
“Why not? You look fine.”
“No.”
“You look... beautiful?”
“I don’t like pictures.”
“You just took one.”
“Of me. I don’t like pictures of me.”
“Why? Because you don’t show up? Like a vampire?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I’m still holding his wrist, and now I force myself to let go, like it wouldn’t be the end of the world if someone took a picture of me, even though it could be. When I wanted to be famous, I was in every picture I could manage, so popular people were sick of me. And now they’re starving for news, and the last thing I need is something to remind them I exist, that the monster has yet to be slain.
If I’ve learned anything in three years of lying, it’s to stick as close to the truth as possible, like pacing the perimeter of the rooftop without ever falling off, even if that would be easier for everyone. “I used to be in a lot of pictures,” I say. “And now... I don’t want to be. I’m different.”
The last photos of me were the ones from Alex’s funeral. He’d always joked that when he died—at age 101—he wanted a Viking burial, whatever that was, and a flash mob. Instead, he got me in a wheelchair, my leg in a cast, unable to run, though that’s all I wanted to do. Instead I kept my head down, refusing to cry. Of course the papers said I didn’t cry because I was a murderer, because I’d stolen the money and killed my brother and was a heartless, soulless sociopath. When I got home I dug myself in, built a metaphorical moat, and hid away like any monster would.
Chris doesn’t look like he understands, but he doesn’t argue. He places his phone on the table and turns it off. The generic sunset screensaver flickers before fading to black. Once done, he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I respect your position. If I were you, I’d be desperate for a picture of me, too.”
“Desperate is exactly the word.”
“I know.” A dimple flashes in his cheek. “Want to get out of here and respect me some more?”
Again, the wave of alarm ripples through me. How beautifully ironic that after years of self-loathing, it’s the man who’s lied to me most—most recently—who’s reminded me that somewhere, deep down, there’s a tendril of self-respect slowly unfurling and fighting its way to the surface.
“I didn’t dress up just for one drink,” I say. If I’m going to go through with this, I’ll need courage. It worked all the other times.