Page 33 of I Did Something Bad
I’m aware that this is a “careful what you go Facebook-trawling for” situation, but I want to know if I can find him. After all,thisis why I became a journalist in the first place—because as dark and disturbing as the things I find at the bottom of the well might be, I still want to dive in and hit that bottom. And while I understand that finding out who this man was and how he knew my name won’t undohis murder, I still want to know. Because he knewmyname and job. Additionally, if thereissome connection between us that I’ve overlooked and that the police discover, that’s a pretty damning way to link this all back to me.
I turn to plan B: my friend Kira, who is Australian, and more specifically, who works at the Australian Embassy as their head of public relations. Given the overlap in our jobs, we’ve gotten to know each other well; I was even the one who encouraged her to go up and talk to her now-boyfriend Charlie at the bar a few years ago.
On her profile, I open her friends list of—I gulp—1,062 people, zoom my browser screen up to 200 percent, start scrolling very, very slowly, and open up any middle-aged white man’s profile in a new tab. Half an hour later, I have… nothing.
I shut my laptop and put it away on my console. My brain hurts, my eyes are stinging, my fingers are stiff, the ache in my feet has returned with full force. And before I can stop myself, a desperate and worn-out voice in my head murmurs,I don’t know what to do.And then,I wish I had help.
Because I do. I really, really,reallydo.
Nine
“You seem jumpy,” Tyler says. I’d noticed that he’d been observing me since we wrapped up, but he hasn’t made a comment until we’re near my place. “Everything okay?”
I couldn’t go to the park on the night we had dinner at Thidar’s, or again the next night (last night) because shooting ran late, but by my calculations, today, I can get home, change, and arrive at the park right around golden hour. Which is perfect, because the place will be flooded with couples and families who have come to watch the sunset, and if anyone asks why I’m combing through every random object that’s washed up in the dirt by the water, I can just say I lost an earring (again, apparently).
“Excited to get home before sunset,” I chirp.
He chuckles. “I hear that.”
I say my usual quick “Thank you, see you tomorrow!” and try not to be so obvious about my hurry as I stride to the elevator. Sprinting into my bedroom, I change into a more plain-looking, blend-right-inoutfit of denim shorts and black cropped T-shirt, a pair of round black oversized sunglasses, and my least favorite black sneakers that I don’t mind getting dirty, and take the elevator back down. I don’t want to drive in case the police are still scanning the park’s security cameras and notice my plate, but, of course, because as is the law of the land whenever you are in a hurry (or, perhaps, because it is rush hour), none of the apps can find me a ride. I cancel my current request and try one more time, but before it goes through, a text appears at the top.
Nay
Drinks tonight? I have had A WEEK so far
Followed by:
Thidar
Can do!
How about you, big-time vogue girl?
And, because they have best-friend telepathy and can sense what I’m about to text even before I start typing:
Nay
Please please??? We really miss you!
Dying for updates!!
For a second, the stinging pierces me as I realize how much I miss them, too—this is the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing them in person while living in the same city—but it only lasts for a second, because my ride app suddenly displays a pop-up confirming that, yep, still no rides.
Sorry, busy tonight! Will catch up soon, promise!!!I reply with three kissing-face emojis.
Cursing, I do things the Neanderthal way and sprint out onto the main road, and stick out my arm and neck to aggressively locate a free cab.
Attention laser-focused on spotting an empty backseat, I yelp when someone says my name a few millimeters away from my ear. I hadn’t heard his footsteps on account of the usual rush-hour ruckus, and I do a double take when I wheel around and find Tyler standing very,veryclose to me, head bent down, a capjustshielding his face. Anyone who walks by us and looks over for more than two seconds will recognize him.
“What the fuck!” I whisper.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, retreating.
Without thinking, I grab his shoulder and pull him back toward me. Under my grip, his biceps tighten and push back against my hand. “That, and what the fuck are you doing standing on the side of the road in the daytime? Do you want to cause a pileup?” I ask, gesturing at the multiple rows of cars that are at a standstill, bored drivers and passengers alternating between scrolling on their phone and gazing out the window.
“What areyoudoing hailing a taxi? Where are you going?”
His tone makes me roll my eyes, which in turn makes him narrow his gaze. “Sorry, did I forget to fill in the sign-out sheet?” I ask.
