Page 17 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
With a groan, she leaned her head in her hands, unable to face the empty page. “Come on,” she encouraged herself out loud. “You can do this.”
Chapter Eleven
Vanessa had now officially been missing for ten days. The tech room was cramped with equipment, making three people feel like a crowd. The overhead light glared, creating a reflection on the monitor that distracted her, while a hum that resembled Nana’s old refrigerator came from a server rack in the corner, and the faint scent of dust and old electronics hung in the air. Raisa stood beside Quinten, hands loosely clasped in front of her. She didn’t reach for him, but stayed close, offering what little comfort she could simply by being near.
His cold, closed-off demeanor hadn’t shifted. With his arms folded tightly and his shoulders tense, he looked every bit like a man trying to hold something in. But despite all that, his body radiated a quiet strength, and he leaned toward the computer screen, eyes narrowing as the technician clicked through a string of files.
“Hold on a sec.”
The police technician, a wiry man with thinning hair, paused the playback, his finger hovering over the controls as he gestured at the shadowy figure getting into a sedan. “That’s her car, but is it her?”
Quinten nodded, his jaw tight. “It looks like it.”
Beside him, Raisa clutched her purse tightly against her belly, her fingers flexing over the strap. Her head ached from how hard she was staring at the screen. “Can you rewind it?” she asked, her tone polite but strained. The tension radiating from Quinten bled into her, and her shoulders kept creeping upward until they nearly touched her ears.
The technician obliged and rolled back the footage. They watched as the figure, obscured by a hood and the poor resolution, slid into the driver’s seat.
“I can’t even say for certain if it’s a woman or a man getting in,” the technician said, rubbing his neck as he glanced between them and the screen.
The timestamp indicated it was just past midnight. Quinten let out a sharp breath, his fists clenching at his sides. “We’re not going to get much from this.”
“No, no, we aren’t—but that’s not what’s important,” Raisa countered hurriedly. She stepped closer to the screen, tilting her head as if the new angle might reveal a hidden detail. “I think I recognize the coat they’re wearing. I’ve seen Vanessa in it a couple of times. However…” She squinted at the screen, lamenting that she hadn’t brought her reading glasses. She had perfect vision in the distance but at close range, the artificial lenses didn’t help. “I don’t think it’s Vanessa.”
Quinten’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer. “No?”
Raisa didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned to the technician, resting her fingers lightly against the desk. “Can you please start it from the beginning?”
Quinten’s lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What? Why?”
“Please, bear with me.” Raisa spoke calmly, though she tightened her grip on the desk. “Suppose for a second it is a possibility this isn’t Vanessa. Her car—yes. Probably even hercoat,” she continued softly, drumming her fingers against the wood. “But it doesn’t have to be her. Think about her walk. You know how she moves—that catwalk kind of way.”
She gestured at the screen and waved her hands in the air to mimic the motion. “It’s like... they’re trying to walk like Vanessa.”
Quinten tilted his head, his frown deepening as he glanced between Raisa and the footage. “Trying?”
Raisa nodded almost absentmindedly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she analyzed the figure’s movements. “Vanessa has this way of walking—straight back, shoulders down, hips moving just enough to catch people’s attention. It’s like a model on a catwalk. Everything she does is deliberate but smooth. But this…” She pointed at the figure, hovering her finger a few inches above the screen, her lips pursing. “It’s stiff. Like they’re imitating her, but it’s not natural. The rhythm’s off.”
Quinten squinted, leaning in closer, as if proximity might help him see what Raisa was indicating. “I don’t see it.”
“She’s also never without heels,” Raisa added, gaining confidence as she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Vanessa hates being only five foot one. Always wears heels—pumps, stilettos, you name it. This person…” She dropped her gaze to the figure’s feet and firmed her lips. “They’re in sneakers or something flat. Vanessa wouldn’t step outside in those—not unless her house was on fire.”
Quinten straightened abruptly, the tension in his shoulders returning as he absorbed her words. “So, you don’t think it’s her.”
Raisa let her arms drop, shaking her head. “Whoever this is, they know how Vanessa walks, but they’re faking it.”
Quinten darted his gaze back to the screen, his brows knitting. “Then who the hell are we looking at?”
“I don’t know.” Raisa wrapped her coat tighter around herself. “Nor do I know how they got her car and coat.”
“Maybe she has an accomplice.” Quinten ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. “But why would they pretend to be her?”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Raisa murmured, biting her bottom lip. She glanced at the technician. “Can you enhance the footage?”
He gave a small nod. “I can zoom in, sure—but just so you know, it’s not going to magically enhance anything. I can’t add pixels that aren’t there.”
“Zoom in anyway,” she said. “Let’s see what we can get.”
The man tapped a few keys, and the grainy image filled the screen. Raisa leaned in, scanning the shadowed face, searching for an earring, a scar, a twitch of movement that would give the impersonator away. Nothing. Just vague outlines and blur.
