Page 144 of Deliverance

By the time they get to my door, I’m a nervous wreck. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the anticipation of bad news. The police wouldn’t be making this visit unless there was some earth-shattering development in the case. It’s not like Rhys Jacoby is a big deal.

The knock sends my heart hammering and I have to give myself a few moments before letting the strangers in.

“Ma’am?” one of them, who’s older with graying sideburns, says when I work all three locks and crack the door open. Very few people have been inside my loft, and this feels a lot like an intrusion.

It’s not. They’re here to help, I think to myself and force a smile. “Hi.”

The second one is a woman who appears to be in her mid-forties, rotund, with a fierce expression and sharp eyes that soften the moment my gaze flicks to her. She was there, at the station, when I filed the police report.

They quickly introduce themselves—Officers Diaz and Keen—and flash their badges, then ask for my permission to enter.

I step to the side and open the door wider.

The woman—Diaz—examines my living room with an expert eye. “You have a very nice place.” She gives me a nod and navigates past the stack of backdrops with the adept efficiency of someone who’s been to a good many number of places that require a certain skill set to walk through, her hands locked behind her back. “You’re an artist, right?”

I’m surprised she remembers. “Yes.”

“My son is applying to art school next year.” She gives me a small smile. “His room looks exactly like your apartment.”

“Messy,” I suggest.

“Avant-garde,” she says.

“You mind if we sit down, Ms. Kadence?” The man—Keen—heads straight for the couch.

“Not at all.” My pulse kicks into a sprint as they get comfortable.

The police officers are making a house call during an ongoing investigation that’s probably at the bottom of their list. Aggravated assault. That’s what Miranda called it. And that’s what Rhys is being—supposed to be—charged with. Yet this is the first time I’m actually speaking with the law enforcement after filing a bunch of paperwork earlier this week.

Keen sits on the edge of the couch, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, and his gaze darts from me to the unfinished canvas by the staircase.

Thedon’t bring your work homesaying, obviously, doesn’t apply to people like me.

“We’ve got a few questions about your husband,” the man goes straight to the point.

“I thought you were going to give me an update.”

“Well”—Diaz tilts her head to the side—“there’s an update, but it’s probably not the kind you’d like to hear.”

Oh no.I don’t like the sound of that.

“The arrest warrant for your husband has been issued,” the woman continues as she pulls out a small notebook from the front pocket of her jacket. “But we can’t seem to find him or any trace of him being in California during the past six months. The only indication that he actually traveled here is an airline record from July. He flew into LAX from”—she scans her notes—“Chicago International. There’s also no record of him ever returning to Illinois.”

My mouth goes dry and when my knees start shaking, I settle onto one of the chairs opposite the couch.

“The only proof that he’s actually here is your witness account. Other than that, he’s been very careful at covering his tracks. There are no hotel records, no receipts. Nothing.”

“How is that even possible?” I ask.

Getting lost in a big city is doable. I know it. Santiago has told me enough stories about people from the neighborhood he grew up in. People who had no problem getting lost when the authorities came knocking on their doors.

L.A. is a two-faced, double-dealing, corrupt shithole. Well, some parts of it. The ones that hide behind the beautiful front. You can buy anything in its underbelly. Including a new identity.

No,I didn’t go that route. I went the honest one, but a long, long time ago, when I was barely getting back on my feet, Santiago hinted that he knew people who knew people who could make it happen if I wanted to disappear.

It was a tempting offer, but it would’ve meant that I’d have to live my life in the shadows and wouldn’t be able to show the world my art.

But Rhys? He never struck me as a person who’d want or even manage to live under the radar.

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