25. MEGHAN

Salt Lake Valley, Utah

6 months before

I decided not to attend my own funeral.

My parents both made the drive from Wyoming to retrieve what little remained of me. Detective Domanska had already interviewed both of them over video chat. When they arrived at the morgue, she met them there and stood vigil while my mom signed the release forms with shaking hands.

It hurt to see my parents. Almost as much as it hurt them to see me.

I wanted to tell them that I was okay. That I loved them. That it wasn't their fault it had happened while they were on their trip. That I'd found Grandma Rosie. That someday they'd find me again, too.

But for now, I couldn't tell them anything.

And I couldn't stay with them.

There was no going back. I was still here for one reason and one reason only.

* * *

Ninety-five percent of the tips that trickled in through the tip line were obvious duds.

Detective Domanska followed up on the remaining five percent herself.

Some were simple cases of mistaken identity. Just guys who looked really similar to the low-res profile photo on MatchStrike. I felt sorry for them.

Others gave me a distinctly sick feeling. One, a line cook who lived about three blocks away from Gracie's, agreed to meet us at his home. I watched Detective Domanska's hand go to her hip, a few inches from the holster of her gun, as he welcomed us inside with a smile. A girl from MatchStrike had called into the tip line. He'd gotten way too aggressive at the end of the date, grabbing her arm when she told him she was leaving early.

He wasn't the guy we were looking for, though. His alibi was solid: He'd been at a party with at least a dozen witnesses for the entire night. But there was a flicker of something familiar in his eye as Detective Domanska interviewed him. Like he wasn't really surprised that he was being interviewed—but didn't anticipate anything to come of it.

* * *

Three days after the tip line went live, we got a message from a woman who spoke so quickly that it was hard to tell what she was saying at first. Detective Domanska listened to the message twice. The woman rattled off an address just outside Salt Lake. Her friend's husband worked there, she said. He looked just like the photo she'd seen in the newspaper.

"His name is James," she said, then hung up without giving her own name.

Detective Domanska looked up the address. It was one of those enormous shared-suite buildings that housed dozens of offices. "Dromo" was the name of the company in the suite number the woman had given. She drummed her fingers on the keyboard as she stared at the screen. Then she headed for the patrol car. It wasn't a great tip, but there was something about the woman's voice.

When we walked into the office suite, an older receptionist with kind eyes and a tight gray bun greeted Domanska. "How can I help you?" she asked, smiling. She glanced at the detective's badge. "Everything okay?"

"I'd like to speak with one of your employees," Detective Domanska began.

In my peripheral vision, I saw someone come around the corner, toward the reception desk.

"James Carson," Domanska finished as the receptionist laughed and called out to the man who had almost disappeared into the office.

"Speak of the devil, he's right here."

The shock and disgust rippled through me. The computer on the receptionist's desk suddenly froze as the lights flickered once, then twice.

Nobody seemed to notice.

James smiled and stuck out his hand. He looked puzzled. Slightly concerned. And as handsome as ever.

Detective Domanska took his hand. "Is there an office where I can ask you a few questions?" she asked. "It'll just take a few minutes."

He winked at the receptionist then waved Domanska toward a conference room a few yards away. "No problem, am I in trouble or something?"

I flew at him, knowing I couldn't hurt him any more than the gentle breeze coming from the air conditioning vent above our heads. I couldn't just stand there, though.

I clawed and hit and fought like I wanted to before.

And, like before, I accomplished nothing—aside from the erratic flickering of the fluorescent lights in the conference room.

I still couldn't believe it was him.

We'd found the needle, after all.

But he didn't look worried.

Detective Domanska started out with the easy questions. Where had he been on the night of Friday, June 14th?

He furrowed his brow and pretended to think. "I really don't know." He had the balls to chuckle. "That's so long ago, I'm sorry—did something happen? I'd have to check back through my phone or ask my wife. She'd know."

He had a wife. It didn't surprise me, exactly. I had no illusions about the kind of human being he was. It just added a new layer of horror. I tried to imagine her. What she looked like. How she had married this monster. Whether she had any kind of inkling of who he was. Whether she was the woman who had called with the anonymous tip.

Detective Domanska nodded. Then she showed him the profile photo the newspaper had run. His profile photo. "Is this you?" she asked him casually.

He took the paper and studied the image. "I can definitely see the resemblance, but no, that's not me. But I saw this in the news yesterday, isn't that the guy they're looking for?"

The detective studied his eyes. I studied her eyes. Could she tell he was lying? Would I have been able to tell he was lying if I were in her shoes? I remembered the taped-up sign I'd seen in the bathroom at Gracie's Spot. On a date that isn't going well? Ask for Andrea at the bar. I thought of the confidence with which I had ignored that sign and walked back out to my tainted drink and my soon-be-murderer, imagining that this was the start of something beautiful.

Then I remembered the girl with the messy bun. The one who had stopped to take a photo of my bleached shoe on the side of the dirt road. I remembered the forest ranger who had called Detective Domanska.

I leaned in as close as I could to her ear, watching the fluorescent lights continue to flicker as my frustration built. "He's lying," I told her. "It's him. He's the one who killed me. Don't believe him."

Domanska's expression didn't change. I'd learned that her poker face was something to be reckoned with. It might mean that she believed him. Or it might mean that she was playing it cool. There was really no way to tell. She ignored his question and asked, "Have you ever been to Gracie's Spot?"

He looked thoughtful again. Then he finally said, "Yeah. I think I have. It's not too far from here."

Domanska nodded. "Were you there on the night of June 14th?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. But like I said, I'd have to ask my wife. My brain is like a sieve, I can't even remember what I ate for lunch yesterday." He laughed. "I'm getting ready to move in a couple weeks. This is actually my last day here. You're lucky you caught me."

His eyes crinkled up at the corners. Lucky you caught me. He was making a joke.

Domanska's expression stayed impassive. "Good to know. I'll need your new address, then. In case I have more questions." Her jaw tightened just a little. She wasn't buying it. I cheered. The lights overhead continued to flicker like candles.

Domanska placed the newspaper article on the table. "To answer your question, yes. I'm investigating this case." She tapped on my photo. "Do you recognize her?"

He made that stupid, pretend-thoughtful face again. "No, but I recognize the photo from the article I read. Scary stuff."

I leaned in closer to her ear again. "Keep going. Ask him about the waitress. She'd remember him."

To my shock and delight, she did.

"There was a waitress at Gracie's who remembers a man with Meghan that night. She gave us a pretty good description of him. What would happen if I put you in a lineup in front of her?"

The air in the room suddenly felt tense and charged. Something in his eyes went dark. "Excuse me?" He made a show of shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That photo is blurry as crap. I don't want to be rude, and I hope you find the jerk who did this, but do I need a lawyer or something here? I don't want to end up like that guy on the Netflix documentary."

Domanska didn't budge. "Could you answer the question, please?"

"No. The waitress wouldn't recognize me. Am I free to go now?"

"No!" I told Domanska. "It's him. You can't let him leave. Keep asking him questions."

It didn't happen.

"You're free to go," the detective told him slowly. "But like I said, I'm going to need your new address and your contact information. I may have more questions for you."

I lagged behind Domanska by a few seconds. When the door to the conference room shut and the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the hallway, he lifted his middle finger.

"Incompetent bitch wolf," he murmured.

* * *

I felt like I was floating away as I followed Detective Domanska back to her car.

We had found him. But nothing had happened.

The detective turned the key in the ignition and picked up her cell phone.

Keep going, Bubbelah. I pictured Grandma Rosie standing across the floury countertop and the bread dough. The wrinkles around the detective's eyes disappeared as I pictured the smile lines in Grandma Rosie's.

Domanska's voice drifted through the memory with me, like background music, getting softer.

". . . but something about him . . ."

The sun-soaked kitchen disappeared as I snapped back into the car. Domanska was driving now, her phone on speaker in its cradle. "Maybe I'm wrong, but I got the feeling that he was expecting someone to show up and ask him those questions. He wasn't nearly as surprised as someone in his shoes should've been. And he's a dead ringer for that photo."

The person on the other end of the line cleared their throat. "Want me to circle back with the woman who called in the tip? It was anonymous, but we have her number."

"Yes, call her back. Push hard. Then find this James Carson guy online. See if you can find a good photo so we can send a lineup to that waitress. If she identifies him, that's enough to get a warrant to search his car."

Domanska paused. Finally she said, "He's leaving the state in two weeks. We need to lock this down before then. I don't want to deal with extradition."

My heart—or whatever still held me together—soared. It was impossible to know how much I had contributed to Domanska's hunch. But I decided to believe that this gut feeling she had was partly my doing.

Grandma Rosie would still be waiting for me in two weeks.

I could stay in limbo a little longer.

Because I really wanted to see this bastard go down.