Chapter Twelve SCARLETT

Chapter Twelve

S CARLETT

Saturday, July 13, 2024

8:30 p.m.

Fifty minutes.

My date with Luke Kane had lasted fifty minutes. And then the Della look-alike had appeared, and I’d lost my mind. Again. This wasn’t the first time in the last decade that I’d spotted “Della.” But at least I’d not made a total ass of myself or filed a police report. I’d only screwed up a date.

Over the years, I’d questioned whether Della was real and whether I was sane. Maybe my mind had broken in that locked room, and I had created her to shoulder my mistakes and pain? Maybe the cop psychologist had been right. Maybe Della never existed. Inventing Della, the doctor had said, was my way of coping and surviving. Maybe I had gone a little crazy.

I changed into paint-splattered jeans and an oversize T-shirt and pulled my blond hair into a ponytail. I uncovered the canvas and sat in front of the Della painting.

As I stared at the eyes, I willed Della to come to life and admit she was real. To tell me I wasn’t crazy. But the eyes stared at me with stony, frustrating silence.

Maybe I’d never been able to get these eyes right because Della hadn’t existed. Maybe I was trying to catch a fantasy that was fading with time. You can’t capture what never happened.

I squeezed fresh paint from several tubes and then picked up my brush. I dabbed the tip into the colors and swirled them on a clean palette until the color seemed right. Brush raised to the painting, it hovered over the eyes that dared me now to fix them. But I had no idea how to remedy the eyes. I had nothing else to spark memories or inject life.

I tossed the brush down, rose, and flexed my fingers. Walking to the window, I stared out onto the quiet sidewalk illuminated by streetlights.

There’d been no word from Dawson since his visit. No updates on the case, and I wanted to take that as a positive sign, but silence was not always golden. The wheels of progress were slow, and they did churn with narratives and incorrect conclusions.

I fished my phone out of my back pocket and glanced at the screen. I’d not given Luke my phone number, but my website was easy to find. However, given my behavior, reconnecting would have to come from me. I shoved the phone back in my pocket. Ghosting him was for the best. I was saving him a lot of grief—getting tangled up with me was a no-win situation.

I rolled through my voicemail messages from numbers I’d not been able to identify and had ignored. I’d been ambushed by one too many reporters, so I’d made it a practice never to answer or even listen to messages from strange numbers.

I pressed play on the first, the second, and the third. All were robocalls. The last message was different. I recognized Tiffany Patterson’s number. Static silence hummed for thirty-eight seconds. A horn honked. This message lasted nearly a minute and had come in at noon four days ago. I’d been in my studio that day, my phone on silent. Now, for whatever reason, I imagined her standing on the sidewalk across from my building watching me as I worked and wondering when I’d answer. There was no way of proving that scenario, but it took little for my imagination to run wild. I’d stayed sane in that basement room because I could imagine other places and people sitting beside me and offering comfort. That same imagination now spun stories that were a bit terrifying.

Had Tiffany seen the article in the local paper about my painting at the recreation center? Had she run out of money, or was she in trouble?

Tiffany had visited me at the hospital a decade ago. She’d told me she was worried about me. She said she was surprised we’d gone to the same high school. She was three years ahead, but small world, right? She’d cleared her throat often. Her faltering smile faded in and out, and she said quietly that she would never forget how I’d risked my life to save her. Carefully, she’d laid her bundle of flowers on the table by my bed. “Thank you.”

That moment had stuck with me, and when she’d shown up on my doorstep six months ago, pale, thin, and high, my heart had softened for her. I’d fed her, allowed her to shower, and given her clean clothes. She’d thanked me and asked me for a few bucks. That first time, I’d given her a couple of twenties. Which I later realized she’d spent on drugs.

And now she was calling my phone and not asking me for money. That was out of character for her.

I turned from my warehouse window. According to Dawson, Sandra had gone to our high school, too. Two girls chosen from the same area could be random, but three made it a pattern.

Had Tiffany heard about the discovery of the young girl’s body? Did Tiffany know something about Sandra? What was she trying to tell me?

A quick internet search of Tiffany listed her three last known addresses. I picked the most recent and searched it on the map before I crossed the room and grabbed my purse.

After I’d sat in my truck and started the engine, my heart pounded as I drove through the city, across the bridge, east toward the country. I knew basically the general area where she lived, and finding the two-story building wasn’t difficult. I parked out front and for several minutes watched as people milled around the building, their laughter mingling with music blaring from several speakers. Out of the vehicle, I climbed the stairs to the second floor and found 2B. Inside, more music pulsed. Drawing in a breath, I knocked on the door. For nearly a minute, there was no response. Finally, footsteps moved toward the door, and it snapped open.

I didn’t recognize the tall woman with dark hair staring at me. Midthirties, with a long, sallow face, she wore a loose-fitting T-shirt that draped off her shoulder, exposing a butterfly tattoo on her bicep.

“Yeah, what do you want?” the woman asked.

“I’m looking for Tiffany. I was told she lived here.” I rushed to add, “We were friends as kids, and I’m in town for a few days and wanted to say hi.” The lies tripped off my tongue so easily. “I tried to call her, but her number was disconnected.”

“That sounds like Tiffany,” the woman said with a smile. “Tiffany isn’t here. She hasn’t been here for days.”

“Do you know where she could be?”

“She might be working. She might be getting high. I never know with her. Give me your number and I’ll have her call you.”

“She’s got my number.”

A brow arched. “You aren’t a cop, are you?”

That startled a chuckle. “No. Not even close. I’m an artist.” As proof I held up my ink-stained fingers.

That seemed to satisfy her. “Tiff’s known for going MIA. Give her a few days and then worry.”

“She ran away a lot when we were in high school,” I lied, hoping to learn more about Tiffany. “A lot of times she came to my parents’ house.” Fabrications swirled around me, and if I wasn’t careful, they would tangle, ensnare, and trip me up.

“Why are you in town?”

“My mother’s funeral.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell Tiffany because it would have meant something to her. We talked a lot about our moms. And I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Tiffany doesn’t have many friends. She’s always been wired tight.”

“I remember,” I lied. “She was a skinny little kid.”

“Yeah.”

I dug a pen and scrap paper from my pocket. I scrawled a note and my number asking her to call me. I wrote my name in bold block letters and underlined it. “Just in case. Can you give her this?”

“Sure.” She flicked the edge of the paper with her finger. “When she’s gone for more than a few days, she’s usually at Jeremy’s.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“Really her drug dealer. He has a house in the Fairmont Park area. I don’t know the address. But ask anyone near there and they’ll tell you how to find Jeremy.”

I knew the area. I’d been to a house in that neighborhood a few weeks ago looking for Tiffany after she’d texted me asking for help. I’d found her. We’d argued. She’d been so high. She’d wanted money, not help. Finally, I’d left without her. “Thanks.”

As I walked to my truck, a man called out to me. He said he needed a favor. I moved faster, gripping my keys. His shouts grew louder and angrier. When I slid into my truck, I locked the door immediately and started the engine. I didn’t bother to look back to see who’d been shouting.

Tiffany really knew nothing about Tanner, but maybe she had something to say about Sandra Taylor. Could she have overheard Tanner and his girlfriend, Lynn Yeats, when they’d shared so many breakfasts at the diner? Maybe Tiffany called in the tip. Maybe she knew something about Della? Maybe I was simply fishing.

Regardless, I needed to find Tiffany.