Page 2 of The Guilty One

No more pretending.

The officer sits quietly, waiting patiently just like she promised she would while I stare down at the brown folder, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t want to open it. I want to pretend like none of this is happening. I want to go back to this morning and pretend, for just a few more minutes, that life is normal.

But it isn’t, and it will never be the old version of normal again.

All I have to do is open the folder and prove it. And so, with a deep breath and tense muscles, I do. I flip the folder open, holding my breath, and stare down at the photograph on top.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s the lion tattoo on his shoulder that I’ve stared at each morning while he brushes his teeth, or every time we’ve showered together. The one I’ve rubbed sunscreen over during summer vacations to the lake or the beach.

Tears line my eyes at once, blurring my vision, and I move the photo just in time to prevent it from getting wet as the tears cascade off my cheeks. I’m already nodding, already confirming, when I lift the photo to see the next one, and it’s the one she warned me about. Bile rises in my throat as I take in the remaining features of his face—the ones that weren’t destroyed by the accident.

Except…it isn’t his face.

I blink, drying my eyes, and lift the photograph closer to my face, trying to understand. It doesn’t make sense.

Seeming to realize that something is wrong, the officer leans forward. “Ma’am? Is everything alright?”

“It’s…it’s not him,” I say, my voice soft and trembling as though I’m afraid if I speak the words too loudly, the universe might hear me and correct its mistake.

“Ma’am?” she asks again, her voice rising with tension. “What do you mean?”

Shaking my head, with new, fresh, more persistent tears filling my eyes, I force myself to look more closely. He has dark hair like Tate, pale skin, and with the bruises and wounds, it’s possible for him to pass as my husband to an outsider perhaps, but not to me.

I know Tate’s features. I’ve spent years of my life studying them, being mesmerized by them. Falling in love with them. These features are different. This man is different.

I pass the photograph back to her. “The tattoo…it’s his, but…this isn’t my husband.” I jab my finger into the photograph, into the face I don’t recognize. “I have no idea who this is.”

CHAPTER TWO

CELINE

The officer just stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. As if there could be a chance I might not recognize the man I married, might just be mistaken when I say the face they’re showing me isn’t his.

“This man isn’t your husband?” She points toward the photograph again, sliding it closer to me.

I shake my head, sniffling as more tears come. Tears of relief this time. Of confusion. “No. I…I’ve never seen this man.”

“With injuries of this extent, it would be understandable if you had a hard time recognizing him.”

“It’s not that. I know my husband’s face. His nose is different. His eyes are smaller. This isn’t my husband, I’m positive.”

“He was driving your husband’s car,” she says, turning the photograph around and lifting it so she can stare at the man’s face. “He was carrying his phone and ID.” She’s talking to herself now as she stands. “You said…you said the tattoo is a match, though?”

Suddenly, I realize we’re thinking the same thing: did the face photographs get mixed up?

How many car crash victims did they have today? How many bodies are there to identify?

I picture a lineup of devastated wives, filing into this room one after the next.

Looking down, I realize there are still two other photographs she gave me to look at. A ring placed next to a hand—a hand that’s supposed to be his—and a birthmark. With trembling fingers, I examine both photographs before shaking my head. My lungs release air as if it’s sadness and I can’t get it out of me quickly enough.

“It’s not him,” I tell her, pushing the photographs away. “He doesn’t have a birthmark on his hip, and his ring is custom—inlaid with wood from a bourbon barrel with a guitar string on top. I got it for him on our anniversary a few years ago. Plus his hands have burn scars on them from an accident years ago. They’re light but noticeable up close. Especially along his thumb. The hands in the photograph don’t have scars.”

Her face is serious as she turns away, preparing to leave the room, then turns back one last time. “You’re absolutely sure.”

I close the folder and slide it back to her, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “It’s not Tate.”

She gathers the photos, hurriedly shoving them back into the folder. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Thompson. Please wait here.”

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