Jamie

Jamie was half-afraid Trevor would suggest he do a similar deal with Jo instead, caught up in the good humor enough to make that kind of a joke, but Trevor just laughed and nodded and made negotiations. It was hard to tell where people drew the line on that kind of thing, and if that was true when he thought about his friends, it was definitely true for Jo.

This wasn’t a date. If anything, it was a group date, but it really wasn’t even that. The way they were sitting meant she wasn’t looking at him most of the time, which was probably a good thing, even if it meant he could spend a lot of time looking at her.

When she was thinking, she’d bite her lip, which made him want to soothe her to stop the abuse, or run her thumbnail over it, like maybe she used to bite the nail instead. When he grabbed her bag he saw she had one of those keychain things attached to a zipper that held a tube of ChapStick, but maybe she needed to step that up a notch and get something medicated. And since when did he care if someone’s lips were dry?

Jamie was first out of the game, which was about par for the course. He got up to get a drink of water, but even that was too close to the light and the laughter, and really he just needed a moment to breathe. Nobody was paying attention to him, anyway, so he went on back through the living room and out the sliding door. The blast chiller was in the garage, and it was about time to check on the pork and move it to the fridge instead.

It would be annoying, maybe, if he honestly had anything better to do, but Jamie even had limits for his friends. They were used to him stepping out for a minute and, unlike Mom, let him without even questioning him for an excuse. Low social battery meant something to that group, and yeah, okay, part of it was probably how he was a singleton among pairs, but sometimes he just had to breathe in the silence and let all the words drain out of his ears.

All this was habit now, the end of a lot of trial and error. His goal was consistency so that people knew what they were getting, whether it was at the Rusty Barrel or in his own food truck. The menu there was small, mostly sandwiches with sides, and customers chose and added their own sauces so the meat itself had a chance to shine. Some people—okay, Mom—thought it was overly simplistic and nothing to be impressed with, even if Chase knew better. Maybe Ricky didn’t entirely take it seriously, or even as seriously as he was capable of taking things, but Chase treated Jamie’s pork with quiet respect.

The fact that he was out here in the garage instead of somewhere in the house spoke volumes. The food truck was a sort of peace offering from Allan and Shane when Jamie had to quit his job and move back home with Mom, almost a joke because hey, his room and board was being paid for, so he didn’t really need much more than a hobby. In Chicago, smoking had been a hobby. He didn’t keep journals or do it more than once a month, and then just enough for his friends. Smoking had once been a hobby, yes, and that was Jamie’s Food Truck in white Comic Sans on the side because Comic Sans was the biggest typography joke, but his business was serious.

Usually he liked having this sort of solitude with the known, practiced movements, but right now that just left too much space. Was Jo actually having fun? She wasn’t competing with Ricky, exactly, because that was a losing game, but she seemed to be matching him pretty well. She was paying attention, too, asking questions and quick with her repartee, but did that mean she was enjoying herself? Would she want to come back?

He wanted her to come back. That was strange and scary and something he didn’t even really want to admit to himself, thank you very much. Wanting something meant that you set yourself up for disappointment.

Telling Jo he’d like to see her again meant she could turn him down.

Jamie got the pork moved and made sure the garage locked behind him before he headed back to the house. He blinked when he saw Jo in the kitchen, and blinked again when she smiled and set down her cup and came out to join him. There was only a thin slice of kitchen visible from the entryway, but she’d picked it. “I’m out,” she announced, kneeling down by his feet because wait, she’d brought her backpack back out here again. “I wanted to give this to you before I forgot.”

He accepted the stack of papers and tried not to think about how she was kneeling right next to him. Normally other people were just there, maybe in his space, but it wasn’t quite so … obvious. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well.” She zipped up the bag and stood in the sort of fluid motion that made it clear her knees weren’t nearly as old as his. “I’m probably just grasping at straws.”

Jamie had the stack sort of propped on his hip because there wasn’t room between them for it. Jo was that close. “I’ll take a look. Um.” If it was for her, then she’d have a harder time saying no, right? “Tomorrow I’ve got the opening day of the farmer’s market, but I don’t have anything Sunday. Mom, uh …” Great. “She goes to church and then usually has brunch or something after, so if you came over around 9:30 we’d have a good few hours.” What, to sneak around? Like they were teenagers?

Her lips quivered as she fought a smile. “Early enough that I’d be allowed to eat breakfast?”

“Hey, I like breakfast for dinner,” he protested, trying not to shift his weight. He wasn’t sure if he’d go backward or forward, and the thought of finding out made his heart race. “I’d say we could go out and get some, but maybe you don’t want to talk about that in public.” Or be seen with him in public.

Jo tilted her head. “Is Babycakes open on Sundays? I went there this morning.”

“Yeah, eight I think?” He shrugged like she didn’t have him mesmerized. “You could pick something up on your way. Uh.” Jamie shook his head a little. “If it is on your way?”

“Oh, Jo lives with Brent,” Mitch informed him, and now the entryway really felt crowded.

When Jo took a step back, though, it was to open up the conversational triangle, but she didn’t actually move any further away from Jamie. Mitch was the most distant point.

Wait, what?

“Yeah, he said Brent was like the same class as your older brother?” Jo shrugged. “My mom and Amanda went to college together.”

Okay, but Amanda was a lot younger than Brent. Amanda was closer to Jamie’s age, and if Jo was thirty-four …

The math didn’t work. That made Jo’s mom, what, fifteen when she was born?

“Small world, right?” Mitch asked with a grin. “Jo, do you want to stick around and play something else while we wait for monopoly to be over?”

“Uh.” She looked around and took Jamie’s hand enough to check his watch, just this casual skin on skin touch that made him stop breathing. “I’ve had a long day, so I think I’m going to go. Text me about Sunday?”

Jamie blinked and had to tell himself she was talking to him. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“And we’ll see you again next Friday,” Mitch added with complete and utter certainty.

Jo grinned. “Sounds good. Okay.” Smoothly again, she bent to pick up her backpack and slipped her feet into her shoes when she straightened. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

He didn’t imagine that part. Before she left, she said goodnight just to him.

---

Chapter Eleven – coming October 11

Jo

My driver’s license gets duly passed around, but Ricky’s the only one who really scrutinizes it. Mitch brings up the usual question: “Wait, your name is first name Jo, second name Ann?”

“No E in either.” It’s my standard response.

Chase clucks his tongue. “You used to have a really cool birthday.”

I nod but I also see the way Trevor and Mitch catch each other’s eyes in the sort of panic that says hey, they don’t actually know me. “God, I had so many themed birthday parties. My mom knit us all house scarves one year.”

“Like the most magical thing a kid could dream of is still school,” Ricky scoffs, crossing his arms and finally nodding for me to roll.

Even though they have to reach across me, Jamie takes my license from Chase, tucks it back into my wallet, and then zips it into the inside pocket of my backpack. He was paying enough attention to get it in exactly the right spot.

I also caught the way he and Mitch had to recalculate the first digit in my age. That’s pretty common. Everybody thinks I’m much younger than I am. I guess that means they thought Ricky invited some sort of child to this group, even though he made such a big deal at how small the age difference actually is, but does it matter to Jamie for some other reason?

Okay, focus. It’s early in the game. Roll, buy the first property, and calculate how many more of those mini quiches I can eat without their teasing turning to some serious concern.

Things settle in, at least, and I navigate the whole “So Jo, what do you do?” question about as awkwardly as usual, because who actually thinks a professional researcher is a thing? I can’t talk about Not Forgotten, and Ricky at least seems to know why because he doesn’t even pretend not to steer us away from that, and the thing I’m on right now is in the early enough stages that I can’t even explain it properly in a sound bite, but then they fall into what I have to assume are their more regular conversation patterns so I just have to roll when it’s my turn and try to remember if I ever learned an actual strategy for this game.

Trevor updates the group on how various plants are doing, which seems to be the cue for Ricky to make pot jokes and Jamie to insist that his sandwiches are actually better without the interference of vegetables. Chase starts discussing the upcoming specials, which makes Mitch roll his eyes and tell them not to discuss work at the Monopoly table. Ricky regales us all with dramatic synopses of student-written ten-minute plays he had to grade recently, barely pausing long enough to take his turn when it comes. I don’t have to talk, and that’s fine, because I can’t keep track of what I’d want to say and what I really don’t want anyone else to know, thanks.

We get up for more drinks and snacks whenever we want, and it’s maybe an hour into the game when Ricky lands on Pennsylvania Avenue, looks at his measly stack of bills, and then turns absolute puppy dog eyes on Chase.

I look around the table, but apparently this is normal. Jamie’s supposed to be getting paid, but he’s just waiting, and when he looks at me, I blush and look away. I don’t think I’m the only one doing either of those things, but I can’t deny it. It’s another good reason for me to stick to the nonalcoholic punch tonight.

Chase starts counting bills, pauses, and adds another before passing them across the table. “Wait, what’s that for?” I blurt, which means I’m just blushing deeper, thanks, because I’m marking myself as the outsider.

“Sexual favors,” Trevor informs me.

Uh. Is he serious?

“They have a list,” Mitch explains as Ricky counts out rent and hands it over to Jamie. “They won’t tell us what’s on the list, but there’s a list.”

“Um.” I shake my head a little as Trevor takes the dice. “What’s the most you’ve ever seen one of them pay the other?”

“Five grand,” Trevor answers promptly.

That was only one grand. I’m pretty sure this is the kind of group that would respect me less if I didn’t ask a follow-up question: “So does it add up and you get the most expensive thing on the list,” I ask Chase, which is easier because he’s carefully straightening his money and not looking at me, “or does each transaction signal a specific favor in sequence?”

That breaks him even though he tries to hide his laughter behind his hand.

“Oh, I like her,” Ricky announces to the table in general before turning to Jamie in particular. “You have to keep her.”

“That’s not an answer,” I protest over more laughter, and yeah, okay, at some point this blush has to peak, right? I can’t even turn to Jamie for help here because I’m just going to broadcast how much I want him to agree with Ricky.

“Specific favor, not necessarily in sequence,” Chase answers with as much dignity as he can muster.

The problem is how this is just another research project tickling my brain. “What’s the least expensive thing on the list?”

It’s Jamie’s turn, and he tilts his head as he rolls the dice. “I’ve seen fifty. Well, shit.” He lands on Park Place, which I basically went broke buying.

I scoot my chair back a little and nod at Chase. “Maybe you can find out what that thousand’s for.”

Ricky absolutely cackles. “I would pay real money to see that.”

“How much real money?” Trevor asks through a gale of laughter.

Jamie drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, and at first I can’t tell if that was a step too far and I’ve lost any chance at getting to know him better, but then he breaks into a grin and shakes his head. “Trevor, I’m going to need some mortgages.”

---

Chapter Ten

Jamie

Oh dear God. Distracted for thirty seconds and Ricky answered the door. Jamie was too far away to stop it, but he crossed the kitchen and swept Ricky back with one arm before he could come up with anything worse. “I am so sorry,” he told Jo, even though he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. “We don’t let Ricky out in public.”

“Hey!” Ricky protested from behind him, but he did at least allow Jamie to get out onto the stoop and shut the door without trying to escape the house.

“Seriously sorry,” Jamie repeated. It was an old joke, and one they all used as frequently as any group of middle schoolers, but somehow it was different when someone said it to Jo.

“Is he a restaurant owner or a theater major?” she wanted to know, and okay, at least she shifted and her voice wasn’t quite even, either, so thanks, Ricky.

And she was insightful. “Ricky’s actually a prof in the theater department at NMU. Chase is the restaurant guy.” He’d never been good at small talk.

Her mouth twitched, but then she said it: “So both of them eat your meat on a regular basis?”

God. He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was going to say you don’t have to stay for game night, but you’d fit right in.” The observation was accurate, but the idea was a bad one. Wasn’t it?

“Um.” She cleared her throat. “I just brought you the copies.”

“Oh, we always make too much food.” He shrugged and crossed his arms. “And plenty of drinks, but Trevor and Mitch always make a nonalcoholic punch, so.”

So. He wanted to spend time with her, but maybe tonight wasn’t the best night.

The corner of her mouth twitched this time, maybe toward a smile, and why was he so obsessed with her lips? “Do we all get to eat your meat, or is that a paid experience only?”

Jamie groaned and gestured toward the street. “Okay, yeah, you’re not staying.”

“Too late.” She grinned at him, eyes sparkling. “Ricky already invited me.”

What was the proper response here? Did he caution her they were all coupled off and mostly gay? Should he let her know how much—or how little—they knew about her? Ricky’d already greeted her by name, so she had to know there was something going on there, but …

The front door opened and this time it was Chase, small and blonde and neat and serious. “I hear I’m supposed to apologize for my husband,” he offered, focused on Jo because Jamie of course knew exactly what kind of a person Ricky was.

“Is that something you have to do often?” Jo asked politely, like this was a normal cocktail party conversation.

Chase sighed. “Unfortunately. Chase Walker.”

“Jo Lewis.” She shook his hand.

He tilted his head back toward the house. “Are you staying, or did Ricky drive you away?”

Jo looked at Jamie first, like maybe he had the final say in this after all, but he just gestured for her to follow Chase.

She left her shoes and her backpack by the door without prompting. It might’ve been habit, or it might’ve been how even Chase, in his suit pants and vest if not the jacket, was in his sock feet. They went to the right, into the kitchen and dining room area, which was probably obvious considering both the light and the laughter. They were missing a few people, though, so Chase just introduced Jo to Trevor and Mitch and asked what he could get her to drink, like he was the host instead of Jamie. Ricky insisted on Chase coming to these things to get him away from the restaurant, but he couldn’t help his ingrained service tendencies.

“Okay, so.” Ricky suddenly appeared at Jamie’s elbow, cup topped off with something that was quite alcoholic. “Do I keep Cards Against Humanity on the table, or …?”

Jamie sighed heavily. Ricky had the talent of making everyone around him rise to his level of the dramatic. “You’re on thin ice.”

“We didn’t bring that one,” Ricky replied deadpan.

Right. Okay. There was Jo, who’d come here asking him about the Milwaukee Millennium Murderer, talking with Mitch about his computer startup and Trevor about his greenhouse. Jo, in his house, in her sock feet, wearing a different dress and a different hoodie today, just casually existing in his mundane space.

Right. Okay.

Jo was new, so he wasn’t the only one paying so much attention to her. She had her drink, but then there was also the food, and shuffling of plates as everyone got the food, and sitting around the dining room table so they could pick a game, which meant Jo ended up between Jamie and Chase. It could’ve been worse, Jamie supposed, but Ricky was across from Chase, and that seemed like a better position to grab her attention than here at her right shoulder. He hadn’t planned to sit next to Jo. He was just the last to go through the appetizers, and that was the open chair.

Mitch got out Monopoly and started setting everything up as Jamie caught some sort of laughter about how many mini quiches Jo had on her plate. “My mom’s all about the cold cereal!” she protested, also laughing, and her hoodie was draped on the back of her chair so Jamie could see exactly how low her sundress was cut in front.

Whoa, down boy. Was this how most people felt all the time?

“Not everyone thinks breakfast can be dinner food,” Ricky informed her, glaring at Chase in case anyone wondered who might disagree with him.

Chase just shrugged. “Eat breakfast at breakfast time. There are so many other options.”

“Is chicken and waffles breakfast?” Jo challenged him, accepting a stack of paper bills from Trevor.

Jamie snorted before he could stop himself and knew he was blushing when she turned to look at him. “There’s a reason the Rusty Barrel doesn’t serve it.”

“Because some people just don’t respect southern cooking,” Trevor clarified, rolling his eyes. “Jo, we’re all creatures of habit, so you’re limited in your token selection.”

Jamie was always the top hat, Mitch the race car, Ricky the horse and rider, Chase the shoe, and Trevor the dog. Those were already in position, so Jo considered the rest. “You’re missing people, right?” she asked. “So are the rest of these spoken for?”

“Nobody takes the wheelbarrow.” Trevor moved that to the board and put the battleship and canon back in the box.

“Trevor’s always the banker,” Mitch said sotto voce, “because he’s the one least likely to rob the place.”

Trevor shrugged. “Least likely still doesn’t mean never. Youngest goes first.” Okay, and that simple declaration made Jamie take a quick drink, because it was one thing to be utterly distracted by Jo and another entirely to have to confront the math.

“That’s usually me,” Ricky sighed.

Jo frowned. “I bet we’re close.”

He raised a challenging eyebrow. “I’m thirty-four.”

“When’s your birthday?” she shot right back.

Wait, Jo was thirty-four? Jamie realized he was sharing a surprised look with Mitch and quickly looked away.

Ricky squared his shoulders. “August.”

Jo held out her hand, palm up. “September first.”

“No way!” Ricky protested as laughter broke out. “That’s why you made me go first! You were always going to pick a date after!”

“My wallet’s out there in my backpack,” she pointed out as Trevor passed over the dice.

Ricky closed his hand over hers before she could roll. “Nuh-uh. I’m calling your bluff.”

Mitch’s sigh was far more weary than dramatic. “Ricky …”

Ricky still had her hand to make sure she didn’t drop the dice, so Jo smirked over her shoulder at Jamie. “Grab my bag?”

He was up before he could wonder if maybe he shouldn’t do it just because she asked him.

---

Chapter Nine

J0

It’s not like I have to get to the archives the minute they open, so I can take some time for myself in the morning. I don’t want to make a habit of it, but I try out Babycakes for coffee and breakfast. It’s within walking distance, which is nice, but also a problem, because my cafe budget for the summer isn’t going to be big enough. I might have to do some juggling there. How many espresso drinks can I buy if I live on ramen?

I try to read my book at breakfast, and one of the baristas wants to know what it is, so everyone in the place gets to hear me say I’m a grown-ass adult reading a book about the dinosaurs. Technically it’s about the extinction, but I’m caught off-guard and I don’t know if this is a city where I can come right out and say the author’s trans or … not. It’s definitely a city that wakes up slowly, so nothing downtown outside of coffee shops is open until ten, and there’s no point in just hanging out here after my latte’s gone. I meander back down to my apartment and grab my notes so I can head up to campus.

Doing research for other people is kind of weird, because I don’t get to pick the topics, but I also don’t spend enough time on any one thing to get truly bored. I’ve emailed ahead on this one, since archives aren’t like libraries, and I’m able to find the parking lot they told me to use and then the proper building and the right doors. Annika’s even expecting me, so she goes over all the rules—pencils only, no water bottles, put my bag in the other room, leave papers flat on the table—and then brings out the first box.

A lot of their stuff is scanned online, but not everything. I don’t think I’ll actually need the whole summer to get what Margot needs, but hey, I’ve got the place, and I’ve got my own little project on the side.

Not that Whittaker’s little. He’s taller than I am, but then, I’m five foot five, so most people are taller than I am. And this is not the time to think about his mouth or his hands or his eyes, Jo Ann, so dismiss him and focus on the first handwritten journal Annika’s brought you.

Luckily he’s got pretty clear handwriting. No matter how many scripts I read, there are times it feels like starting over. Even when they tried to teach every kid the same method, by the time I get to them, they’re adults and their handwriting shows personality. I keep hearing older generations complain that kids these days don’t learn cursive in school, but I did, and I still have to re-learn what I’m reading when it’s a new person. Part of the reason I get hired is to do all the boring steps that people don’t like, such as transcribing documents alongside taking photos, so I dive in and start at the beginning.

Sometimes, if I can’t figure out what a word is, I try to write it on the table with my finger, following the lines on the page. I’m not sure if that’s an accepted practice, but hey, it helps.

I break once for a late lunch, and once to find a copy machine and pay to make Whittaker a file of his own. I don’t have an extra folder handy, but whatever. I doubt he’s going to read it, anyway. That was probably a waste of paper, but I’m clearly still planning on swinging by his house on my way home. Part of me argues I can’t know for sure he’s not a serial killer, and the other part says I just want him to look at me again, so sheesh, I’m all kinds of messed up.

I mean, I knew that already, but come on.

It’s only my first day, so I don’t really have to push it, but they’re not open on the weekends and I’m not dealing with the eye strain I’d get if it were a scan on a screen, so I keep at it until a quarter to five. Annika’s assured me that she doesn’t have to put everything back because they have a shelf for ongoing projects, so I don’t have to worry about keeping her late, but yeah, when I stand up, my back crackles, and I twist to try to loosen it. Then it’s time to gather my stuff, and my backpack’s heavier than usual because of the extra copy, but I’m going to deal with that immediately enough. Then I should really hit up a grocery store and stop going meal to meal like this, except being hungry’s the worst time to shop.

I put Whittaker’s address into my GPS because I’m not entirely sure I could make it on the first try. I can probably get back to the apartment, and I know how to get from the apartment to his house, at least while walking, but there are some confusing one-way streets here. Marquette even has roundabouts, which really seem like unnecessary pretensions, but I don’t need to go through any of those. I just follow the instructions, even though they put me on the opposite side of the street as his house, but the library parking lot’s right here. I can’t tell if street parking is okay, and I don’t know how late the library’s open, but there are spots. Nobody’s watching me, and nobody’s going to mock me for my awkwardness, so just park already, self, and heft your backpack.

I did buy the upgraded padded straps at least. I’m the sort of person who’d love to carry a cute little purse, but I also want to carry more than a little purse can handle, so here I am, walking up his driveway again and going to knock on the door this time. It’s not like I really want to negotiate his mother, but I also don’t want her thinking I’m being too informal.

I had enough issues with Jake’s mom, thanks. She didn’t think I was good enough for her boy, and he didn’t do such a great job of walking the line between convincing me he was putting us first when he was actually putting her first, so …

Whittaker’s not like Jake. We’re not in a relationship. And it’s a good thing I’ve tried to fix my face for her to be the one to answer the door, because it’s not her, and it’s not Jamie. It’s a strange man in jeans and a sport coat over a faded band T-shirt, and he’s got a vaguely Keanu Reeves look when his face absolutely breaks into a grin. “Oh my God, please tell me you’re Jo!” he gushes, opening the door all the way.

“Uh.” I mean, yes, I am, but I’m also not sure why this stranger seems so happy to see me.

“Come in, come in!” he urges because, open door or no open door, I haven’t crossed the threshold. “You have to join us for game night.”

Whittaker didn’t mention game night. He mentioned the smoker, and maybe I spent longer at the archives than I’d planned, but he didn’t mention game night.

“The more, the merrier,” he insists, holding out the hand that doesn’t have the red solo cup. “Ricky. My husband and I own the Rusty Barrel downtown. So, you know.” Dear God, he even winks at me. “If you ever want to eat Jamie’s meat in public …”

What the hell have I stumbled into?

---

Chapter Eight

Jamie

Normally Jamie didn’t mind Ricky—he was one of his best friends—but today it was especially annoying that Ricky didn’t just come out back to pick up the pork. No, Ricky always had to pop into the house and say hi to Mom, and butter her up, and basically make Jamie’s life worse because he didn’t hang on her every word.

Ricky didn’t, either, but he could fake it for twenty minutes or so.

The sliding door opened and Ricky came out laughing, holding two cans of Ore Dock Reclamation from Jamie’s own fridge. “You got it, Helen,” he called before sliding it shut.

Jamie didn’t reach out for the offered beer. “Your order’s ready.”

“Yeah, sure, and I’m supposed to pump you for all possible information about your girlfriend.” Ricky grinned, and even this early in the year he was tanned. He tossed his head to get his too-long hair out of his face, except that was on purpose, because he never grew it out or got it cut shorter. Ricky waggled the can. “Little cutie, probably too young for you, awkward as hell because your mom walked in on … what, exactly?”

His smile was as tight as his crossed arms. “You, of all people—”

“Should be curious as fuck?” he cut in, again with the grin. “Come on, you won’t break my heart. That ship sailed.”

Jamie reluctantly freed his hand to take the can. “She’s not my girlfriend. I just met her today. She’s one of the researchers for that Not Forgotten podcast and she had some questions about Milwaukee.”

“Oh, come on.” He popped the top but at least didn’t sit down like he wanted to stay and gossip about it. “Helen’s got me all hyped. You can’t downplay it like this.”

“There’s nothing to downplay,” Jamie protested. It came out wearily, like he already knew this was a losing battle. “Jo showed up. I told her I wasn’t selling today, and she gave me her card and asked about Milwaukee.”

Ricky laughed. “What, did you know Davis?”

Davis was unhoused and an addict. Except no, you weren’t supposed to reduce people to an adjective like that: a man living with addiction. “No.”

“So then …” Ah, here it was: Ricky hooked his ankle around the leg of the chair and pulled it closer so he could sit down.

Jamie didn’t join him.

“Man, look.” He tilted his head and squinted up at Jamie. “The fact that I have to drag every single little detail out of you tells me she’s not nothing.”

Wait, was that true? “There aren’t any details.”

Okay maybe that wasn’t true.

Ricky leaned over to pat the seat of the other chair. “Jamie. Sit. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He sat anyway, and the protest was weak. There was plenty inside him, but he didn’t know how to put it into words.

His best friend, the guy he’d known since he moved back and stumbled into the restaurant scene, raised an eyebrow and, for a change, seemed to mull something over before he said it. “Identity crisis?” he finally ventured.

Jamie sighed and set his beer down as he sank into the chair and dropped his face into his hands.

“All right, so.” Ricky’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “You want to talk about it, we’ll talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, because I think I acted like an idiot.” He sat up and reached for the beer because that was just the first sentence bursting through the dam. “She says the podcast got it wrong and he only killed a couple of them, so she’s looking for the other person, and I’m pretty sure it’s not me, but she’s also that best friend who lost her husband to Tess, so it’s all a mess of personal whatever.”

Ricky just nodded.

“And then …” Jamie gestured back to the house. “Yeah, Mom showed up and called her my girlfriend.”

Ricky’s mouth twitched toward a smile. “Maybe you’re not your type, man, but I know a lot of people who would be happy to date you.”

He waved that away. After all, Jo just met him, so she wouldn’t have a clue about whether or not she wanted to date him. Right?

Okay Ricky’s raised eyebrow told him that maybe this was another thing he didn’t fully grasp about most people.

“She feels guilty about getting Davis caught.” And now who sounded defensive about it? “And she’s got one of those maps that says the killer lived on my block, but I’m the only one who was there the whole time.”

“Wait, so she thinks you’re a serial killer?” Both of Ricky’s eyebrows were up. “Dude, that’s …”

But Jamie shook his head. “She said she couldn’t trace any more murders to Chicago or here, so I’m off the hook. She just wanted to know if I could remember anyone who was also there the whole time, but who didn’t have their name on public records or something.” He remembered the beer and finally opened it, although chugging probably wasn’t the best idea.

Whatever. He drained it.

Ricky clucked his tongue. “Okay. Strange chick maybe doesn’t think you’re a serial killer. Is she hot?”

Jamie gave him his best Look.

“So.” The grin was back. “Yes.”

Intriguing, sure, but hot? True, his thoughts immediately went to her brown eyes and the twitch of her lips, but that wasn’t hot. Was it?

“Okay, and you’re going to see her again …?” he prompted.

Jamie shook his head a little. “I said I’d look over her evidence. She’ll bring copies by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Ricky offered his fist to be bumped and laughed it off when Jamie left him hanging. “Tell her to come to game night.”

That made him wince. Game night was safe in that Mom had bridge Fridays, so it was just friends coming over, but it was basically the guys. Plus it was the guys who’d known each other for ages and could just be weird together, so adding in a complete stranger … even one with those quick eyes and that charming smile …

When he focused on the here and now, he didn’t like all the facets of Ricky’s grin. “Okay. Let’s get what I’m here for.”

---

Chapter Seven

Jo

It’s not that long of a walk to my summer place. It’s nice and close to a ton of downtown coffee shops, but even that isn’t why I picked it.

Technically I didn’t pick it. Mom went to college with Amanda, so when Mom mentioned the possibility of me coming up here for the archives, Amanda jumped right in with the news that their Northern Michigan University renter was graduating and the apartment was available for a reduced rate until fall semester starts. It’s in a prime location, but the apartment itself is definitely college-student territory: barely enough for one person, and on a middle floor. Brent makes a ton of money so that’s why they have the Customs House, which is technically four apartments. The top floor is for visiting family members, Brent and Amanda have the multi-story main one up front, and the basement one—sorry, I mean garden level one—is an Airbnb. Mom said Amanda’s always wanted to do a regular bed and breakfast, so this was their ridiculously expensive compromise.

I’m pretty sure Amanda gave me the best friend’s daughter rate. I am at least under contract for the archives project, so there are payments coming in, but come on. Amanda knows about Jake and Tess, and Kara and Tess, and just … everything. Jo needs a change, so here I am, letting myself into the side door and trying to pretend I’m not braced for Amanda to pop out and cheerily ask how I’m doing.

I just got here yesterday. It’s going to be a long summer.

The side door is at the level of my apartment, so I can just walk right in. At least there’s a key for it. The garden level has a code pad so they don’t have to negotiate giving keys to various people and getting them back again. She still deals with check-out times and going in to clean and do all the basic housekeeping things, which really doesn’t sound all that fun to me, but that’s Amanda. She’d come in and clean my place once a week if I let her.

Okay to be honest it might be nice to have someone look after me, and pick up after me, because I’m really not great at it. Amanda’s basically my aunt, but come on, I’m in my thirties. I shouldn’t need family to look out for me like this. Shouldn’t, and yet …

I slip my shoes off and place them side by side on the mat, because I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours yet, so I’m trying to at least start out neat. It won’t last, because it never lasts, and I know and accept myself for who I am, okay? Even if other people—

Look I wouldn’t be thinking about Jake quite so much if they hadn’t released those happy new parent photos on Monday. Any time Tess makes the news, it seeps into my feeds no matter which words and phrases I add to my block list. I tell myself the usual mantras of how social media isn’t real life, so of course they’re beaming and perfect and proud, no matter what I actually know—or think I know—about them.

The problem with moving to a new city, even temporarily, is that you’re the same old you. I’m still the person who never really got a job after college because she followed her husband and supported him through grad school, who then lost her job because of COVID, and got the pity research job from Tess and her new best gal pal Kara, and then lost what felt like everything.

Being able to put my research for Not Forgotten on my sad little website means I’ve been able to line up more or less constant gigs since then, but come on. I liked being a barista who didn’t use her history degree and went home to make Jake dinner every night, okay? So maybe it’s not the twenty-first century feminist dream. I was happy. I thought we both were.

And now I’m in this furnished apartment, trying to keep my stuff from exploding more than absolutely necessary, because I’ve just fled from a seriously awkward conversation with a guy who probably thinks I should be shipped off to the nearest psychiatric hospital.

For the record, I very carefully didn’t show up and accuse him of being the Milwaukee Millennium Murderer. I’ve tried so many ways to make it work, because Jamie Abraham Whittaker’s the only person who lived on that block the whole time and it would’ve been such a neat solution, but no. There’s no reason he would’ve stopped when he went to Chicago, and as for coming up here, that’s a high-stress situation. His dad died, so he moved back in with his mom—and, by the way, he’s the adopted son. The two biological children said no, thanks, and left the middle non-blood sibling to pick up the slack.

I know way too much about Jamie Abraham Whittaker.

My backpack goes on the floor by the door because it’s too heavy to hang up on any of the coat hooks. There’s no closet, and I guess Amanda decided there’s no good spot for a coat tree, so it’s a row of hooks like back in kindergarten. It’s summer, though, so I didn’t bring any coats, even though apparently I’m going to cycle through the two hoodies I packed with depressing regularity.

There’s actually not much to complain about with this apartment. The hooks are weird, but maybe more quirky than anything, and it’s got a dishwasher, washer, and dryer. That’s more than some places I’ve lived. The floors are tile and hardwood, covered with nice but more importantly high-traffic rugs, and all the windows have blinds that block out so much light that Amanda’s provided night lights. The mattress is just about perfect, the shower head has multiple settings that actually work, and even if it’s just a one-bedroom, there’s plenty of space in the living room for me to spread out my stuff. Except I haven’t spread out my stuff yet, because then the place will look like a mess.

It’ll look like I live here.

There’s a single book on the coffee table, next to a single knitting project bag. I’m not usually a monogamous knitter, but again, trying to limit the explosion.

Technically I guess I’m trying to contain my emotions by containing my physical belongings, but I’m not sure it’s working. Whittaker’s basically my only hope at this point, and I guess he’s still riding the pity train if he asked for copies of my stuff, but there wasn’t a single sign of recognition in his eyes or his posture.

Not that I was studying him that closely. Except I was.

Seriously he’s good-looking in the food truck promo photos, but then when you see him in person … his shoulders look broader, for one thing. He’s not as stiffly posed, which I didn’t think when looking at his website, but he’s more relaxed in real life.

A serial killer finally confronted with someone who knows his identity after a couple of decades couldn’t be that relaxed. Like everyone else in the world, I’ve seen the video of Davis. It’s been compared to so many other videos of so many other murderers—thanks, Netflix, for giving us that kind of access—and everyone agrees: there’s a tell. Maybe they don’t all fold to the extent of, say, Dahmer or Bundy and go off with all kinds of details, but if you’re watching closely, you’ll find something.

I thought about trying to record today’s encounter, just in case it’s so subtle I missed it in real time, but that’s too spy movie for me and my budget.

He’s not a serial killer, and I’m out of options.

---

Chapter Six

Jamie

Shoot. Jamie had been checking his watch, like always, but he hadn’t connected the hands with anything other than his smoking journal. “Uh. Mom.” Okay, he’d known her most of his life and he still wasn’t sure if the girlfriend comment was a joke. “This is Jo. Jo, this is my mom, Helen.” Mom blocked Jo’s retreat, since the only other way off the porch was through the house, so he turned like maybe his raised arm had always been for an introduction.

Mom smiled the close-lipped smile that she seemed to think fooled everyone as she held out her hand. Her nails were long and cherry red, and she had two gold bracelets on her wrist, both from Dad: one for her first child, and one for her first grandchild.

Jo’s nails were short and unpolished, and it was impossible to tell if she had any bracelets because her sweatshirts sleeves were down over her knuckles. She had to pause, though, and decide what to do with her backpack to get it out of that hand before she shook.

It didn’t go back on the porch, but it didn’t get hefted onto her shoulder, either. She set it down on the chair and shook briefly. “Hi.”

“Well, now.” Mom clucked her tongue and raised one penciled eyebrow in his direction. “And I thought Jamie spent all these hours back here alone.”

“Mom,” he cut in before Jo could react, keeping his eyes on Mom so he wouldn’t see exactly how Jo reacted. “I just met Jo today.”

“Uh-huh.” That was her tone of many layers, and he never caught them all, but maybe Jo did when that raised eyebrow turned on her. “You kids and your internet dating. Well, I’m off work,” she pointed out unnecessarily, “but don’t let me … interrupt.” Helen Whittaker never did anything so gauche as winking broadly, but she twiddled her fingers in a little wave before she opened the sliding door and disappeared into the house.

Shit. Whatever this was, if it had been anything at all, it was over. Mom ruined it.

It was a single conversation. Why did Jamie feel like he was losing something?

Jo cleared her throat, which meant she was still standing here. At least she stared after Mom, so she hadn’t caught whatever was on his face. “So, uh.” Both eyebrows raised, she turned to look at him. “Don’t get many guests?”

“Drop the M,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

She snorted, then clapped both hands to her face and turned away. It was a poor attempt to hide her giggles, though, so maybe he hadn’t messed this all up? Was that even possible?

And shoot, it was time to update the journal again, and add another log to the fire. He could basically do this in his sleep, even though he made sure to stay on top of things, anyway, so he could deliver a consistent product. The main problem was that, with Mom gone, turning to the smoker meant Jo would be able to get that backpack up on her shoulder and retreat.

“Look, I should go,” she blurted, swiping under her eyes as she turned back. Her face was red, not in a blush but in blotches that meant she was on the verge of crying.

Okay, confronting a total stranger about a subject deeply connected to both her personal and professional life was probably stressful, but he still didn’t want her to go. “Leave me a copy of your stuff,” he blurted, shrugging just shy of helplessly when she frowned up at him. “All your new evidence.” Jamie gestured at the bag she had to heft. “Maybe it’ll jog my memory.” Milwaukee was twenty years in the past, but it was the only thing he could think of. She’d given him her card, so he had some contact information, but he couldn’t be sure he’d think of anything else to get her to come back.

Jo blinked, sniffed, and shook her head. “Uh. I’ll have to make copies.”

“Okay. There’s, uh.” He pointed across the street, which really meant pointing through the house. “The library has a copier.” Plus Mom wasn’t there anymore.

She shook her head a little. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I’m going up to the archives, anyway.”

Tomorrow was okay. He smiled, even though this probably wasn’t a smiling sort of situation. “I’ll be here all day.” Maybe the head tilt toward the smoker was too much, but here meant literally here, for another round, because he supplied it for one of the downtown restaurants and not just for his food truck.

The way her eyes flickered up and down made him think that yeah, the smile was really the wrong thing, but then she nodded. “Okay. I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”

Wrong or not, the smile wasn’t going away. He waved, which was probably stupid, and watched as she went down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house.

There wasn’t the sound of a car starting up. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard one arrive, either.

Mom’s house—he’d lived here as a grown man for years and it was still Mom’s house—wasn’t far from downtown, where there were some hotels, but hadn’t she said she was here for the whole summer? Jamie remembered to check his watch again, and he marked the non-standard time in the journal and current temperature. There. He had a record of it now. Something threw him off, and even though he didn’t usually go back through past records, he’d know this one was here, forever.

Seriously, what was that? It was like he’d never seen a woman in a red dress before, maybe a bit early for the season—so either she was from the U. P. and used to it, or she wasn’t and she’d misjudged the late-May weather—or maybe just that he’d never seen a woman before.

That was silly. Jamie knew who he was. He’d been that way for forty-seven years, so why would any of it change now? Nobody ever caught his eye, of any gender. Maybe he was the disappointment because Allan had at least been married three times and even if Shane was in the middle of a divorce, he’d not only had a wife but fathered two kids. Jamie was eternally just Jamie, the middle child who could be guilted to uproot his entire life and move back in with Mom after Dad died because it was only his life.

Right. He picked up his root beer and swirled it around to judge how much was left before sitting back down, finding his place in his book, and trying to focus his eyes on the words.

---

Chapter Five

Jo

It’s a valid question. Marquette might be the biggest city in the Upper Peninsula, but it’s still basically in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got my hands clasped in my lap, and my fingers are starting to grow numb, so I need to answer quickly. Truthfully, but which truth?

“Okay, so first.” Wait, I’ve decided I owe this stranger more than one truth? I’ve seen his photos online, so I shouldn’t be quite this taken in by his direct eyes or the tilt of his head or the size of his hand curved around the koozie. “I’m up here on another project, for the archives.” I close my eyes and pretend I’m just sorting through the exact specifications of my NDA. “I’m the one who brought them Davis’s name in the first place, so it’s my fault he’s going on trial for a bunch of murders he didn’t commit.”

His frown’s back, and Lord help me, I want to reach out and smooth down that line on his forehead. “Okay, but even in your version, he’s killed two people.”

My version, huh? Nice of him to humor me. “That’s seven he didn’t. They only know who he is because of me, and I emailed them after they closed out the contract and tried to tell them they needed to do more digging, but then …”

He knows the then. His mom knows the then. Millions of people around the world know the then.

Kara and Tess—well, okay, probably the legal team backing them—took the episodes down, so right now there’s only a message about how they don’t want to unduly influence the legal process, but there are still ways to listen. Everyone knows what they concluded, and despite the forums and encouragement to investigate further, it also seems like everyone agrees with them. Nobody’s going to bat for Stanley Trevor Davis.

“Okay, but.” Whittaker checks his watch again, and this time he shifts his chair instead of just reaching for the blank book that seems to track the Grillennium Falcon’s temperature.

When he shifts the chair, it’s to turn it more to face me.

“When they put him on trial it’s all separate charges, right?” He’s so damn earnest. “And he’s got a lawyer, so the lawyer will find the same stuff you did, and they’ll figure it out.”

I’m not so sure Davis’s lawyer is smart enough, and I don’t want Whittaker to get to the point where he suggests I should contact said lawyer.

Seriously, his gaze is intense. His eyes are cool and light blue, but they feel hot on my face. I can’t be this transparent. And I’m not, am I?

Whittaker pulls my card out of his book and considers it like it has more than my contact information and two-word job description. He doesn’t seem like he was all that interested in the show, though, so he probably doesn’t know anything only slightly related. I’m safe.

Wait, his mom was really into the show. Maybe I’m not safe.

Whittaker licks his lips and looks back up at me. “Is your research the only thing they took?”

Shit. My fingers might be numb, but my eyes tell me they’re still all tightly laced together. “No, that was me.” Great. How many of the details does he have? Tess stole her college roommate’s husband, sure, but does he know Jake only stayed with me as long as he did so I’d hand over all the juicy details? Or that Jake didn’t stop having sex with me just because he was screwing Tess every chance he got?

“So …” He strokes his goatee, and seriously, I need to stop looking at his hands. Does he work out, or is that just from the kitchen? “You’re trying to disprove this whole thing that made them famous, that you did the initial research for, when actually it’s really personal and maybe you just want to topple it to get back at Tess?”

I mean, I wouldn’t mind Jake taking a fall, either. He was in on it, and yeah, I hate myself for making excuses for them and letting them both play me, okay? “It’s true about Davis, though,” I insist, and damn it, I’m a petulant child. “Nobody’s going to believe me, but it’s true.”

“Well, so.” Whitaker shifts again, turning even more in my direction, but maybe that’s just so he can nod at my backpack. He runs a hand over his hair, which is pulled back in a sleek ponytail. “You’ve got evidence, right? You said surveillance cameras?”

Okay, but he already pointed out the counterargument. “I’ve got Akira on camera after Julie disappeared, and I’ve got a whole list of cameras I’ve searched for Julie, but just because I haven’t found her doesn’t mean she wasn’t out there.”

He whistles softly, eyes drifting as he thinks something through. “It came out, what, late 2023? How long have you been chasing this?”

I cross my arms before I can think that the only thing I have left to do is pout and I’m Shirley Temple in a snit. “It’s been almost three years.” My contract and my marriage were closed out within a couple months of each other.

That makes him double blink. “You’ve been working on Davis’s defense for three years?”

“First, it’s not full time.” What’s with me thinking he deserves more than one thing in every response? “I’ve had other jobs, and I had to move, and I’ve just been …” God, I’ve been lonely, okay? Moving back home means I moved away from the friends I’d gathered, except they’d been our friends, and now according to her Instagram, Tess inherited them.

Whittaker waits without moving, and that just pisses me off. There’s a fine line between attentive and frozen, and from there it’s only a short trip to pity.

“It should bother me,” I snap. “It should bother everyone! They’ve got him convicted already, but it’s not fair! It’s not justice! They’re getting all this praise, and …”

There’s the pity. He thinks I’m making this up because I’m envious of all the attention—and money, can’t forget the money—Kara and Tess are getting. Look, it’s not exactly a walk in the park when your former best friend’s engagement and wedding and pregnancy announcements are so ubiquitous that you’ve seen all of them despite actively trying not to, and Jake told me he didn’t want any kids with me, okay? Yes, fine, that’s all personal, but that’s not the point.

“Whoa, hey,” Whittaker protests when I get up and grab my backpack. “You haven’t told me nearly enough to get me to believe you.”

Right, so I’ll just—

He starts to stand and holds out an arm to block my exit. “That backpack looks really heavy,” he reasons, ducking his head to try to get me to meet his eyes. “You’ve got more than a single sheet of paper in there.”

I do, thanks, but I don’t have enough Kleenex to take care of everything I’m feeling right now, so once again: I’ll just—

“Well, hello!” a woman’s voice announces, dripping with syrup and clearly too loud to be ignored. “Jamie, who’s your girlfriend?”

---

Chapter Four

Jamie

Jamie looked at the young woman in the other chair, from her sensible flats—worn with ankle socks—to her brown hair more or less held back in a casual bun. She seemed young, honestly too young to care about murders from a quarter century ago, but she was also … what? There was something different about her, something magnetic, and was it the straight set to her shoulders or the fact that there were clearly thoughts whirling behind her brown eyes or another aspect entirely?

Jamie didn’t usually notice near-strangers as individual people. There were repeat customers who’d greet him on the street, sure, but none of them caught him quite like this.

He looked down at his watch again and passed the map back. “On average, I’ll be here another six hours,” he told her, this Jo Lewis who had a paper business card. Of course he’d piled things wrong, so he had to pull the blank book out from under the one about John Wilkes Booth, and catch the pen before he knocked it to the porch, and record the temperature of the smoker. “You can have as much of that as you want.” Except shoot, it was a weird thing to say to a stranger, and the way her eyes narrowed a little told him she’d noticed.

“Okay, well.” At least she looked down at the image and gave him a reprieve, and she laughed a little and shook her head. “I haven’t explained it to anyone before. Okay.” Jo licked her lips and focused on his face again, and he didn’t have to record the temperature for another fifteen minutes, so he was pinned. “That map’s not the same as the one on the website because it has different data points. I took out Sophia and Akira and sent in the other seven.”

“Uh.” It was ironic, really, that he couldn’t entirely remember all of the names in a podcast called Not Forgotten. “The first and second?” And that was a bad move, wasn’t it? It was the sort of anti-feminist way of talking about the murdered women that made Kara and Tess start the podcast in the first place, and the reason they spent time in each and every episode lecturing listeners on the proper language to refer to sex workers and people with addictions and the unhoused.

Jo held up a finger, but she somehow looked pleased. “Okay, so that’s part of my point. I can’t share anything I did specifically for them while I was under contract, but anything they’ve made public is fair game, and anything I’ve done since.”

Jamie nodded, because the way she’d leaned slightly closer to him seemed to demand that he participate in this and not force her to monologue.

“The order of discovery isn’t necessarily the order of the murders,” she continued, now turning in the chair to face him more directly even if the chair itself didn’t move. “Akira Koenig was discovered before Julie Juntunen, but I’ve uncovered video surveillance that shows she was alive after Julie was last seen.”

So she was trying to mess with the order. “Isn’t, uh …” Yeah, he was back to the question of language. “Isn’t part of the problem how they didn’t have fixed schedules so nobody can really pinpoint the last time anyone saw them?” That sidestepped the question of what any of the witnesses had in their bloodstreams at the time, but she probably knew those concerns, since she mentioned video evidence.

“It doesn’t make any sense for the killer to not bite, bite, not bite, and then keep biting,” she told him, possibly ignoring his question.

“It doesn’t,” Jamie agreed, and was that a pang of regret that this conversation was going to be over so soon? “That’s why Sophia and Akira were the first two.”

Jo shook her head once, but firmly. “Sophia was first, but Julie was second. Akira was third.”

They agreed, apparently, that it didn’t make any sense, but the simplest explanation was the one given in Not Forgotten. Jo was twisting it to make the order fit her own explanation, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what her explanation was.

“Davis is a murderer, but he only killed two of them,” she explained with a little shrug. “I took Sophia and Akira off the list, sent the other seven in, and that’s when it centers on your block.”

Jamie opened his mouth to protest that he couldn’t be the Milwaukee Millennium Murderer because he hadn’t moved there until after the first murder, but then he shut it. For one thing, she’d just taken the first murder off the table, and for another, protesting that he wasn’t a killer meant acknowledging she had a reason to argue he was.

“You’re the only one who lived there the entire time from 2000 to 2003, the span of the murders,” she continued with a little shrug.

Great. “So you’re here to get a confession?” How long did it take her to come to that conclusion? And wait, all of that information was public?

But Jo shook her head. “I can’t trace similar murders in Chicago or here.”

He nodded at the smoker before he could ask himself if it was wise. “You sure you don’t want to go all Jack Crawford on me and take some of that for DNA testing?” Wait, maybe she wasn’t old enough to have watched the show.

“Sounds expensive,” she muttered without asking for clarification, and then she pointed at the smoker. “Do you have Silence of the Hams stenciled on the other side?”

“Excuse me,” he shot back, faux offended. “That is the Grillennium Falcon.”

Her eyes dropped to the legs. “Does it list lazily to the left?”

He snorted and lifted his can of root beer in a salute. That wasn’t just a Star Wars reference—it was a Family Guy Star Wars reference. “Okay, so, you’re looking for a serial killer who lived where I lived, except it’s not me, but you tracked me down because …?”

Jo sighed and the smile dropped off her face, which was disappointing. He much preferred her joking about Hannibal and Han Solo. “All I can access is official records, and I know it’s ages ago, but I was hoping … God.” She slumped back into the chair, which meant she was facing forward instead of toward him. “Maybe you remember a neighbor who had a boyfriend hang around, or someone whose adult son needed a place to stay, or just other ideas.”

Other ideas, huh? “Are all researchers this thorough?” He meant it as a tease, but the way her shoulders tensed revealed it wasn’t heard that way, and shoot, he’d botched it. She’d get up and leave and end the most interesting conversation he could ever remember having.

---

Chapter Three

May

Jo

I’ve misjudged the hill, so I’m trying to control my breathing and surreptitiously wipe my hands on my dress before anyone sees me. Google Maps showed me which house I’m looking for, and I keep an eye out for the brick one with the little patio, except nobody’s out front. Maybe this’ll be a bust, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The driveway’s on the far side, and when I turn down it—yes—there’s a man sitting on the back porch next to a smoker. He’s got a book in one hand and a can with a koozie in the other, so I can’t tell if he’s drinking before noon, but he looks up and gives me a sort of guarded, toothless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not selling any today,” he tells me before I can even take a full breath, so at least I’m not the first stranger to catch him back here.

“No, I …” He’s thrown me, and I fumble in my pocket for my card and hold it out. It’s awkward because he has to close his book and set his drink on a little table to take it, and the deck is up a couple of steps. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions about Milwaukee.” At least that came out at a decent tempo, even if my voice betrays my heartbeat.

Jamie Whittaker considers the card. “Professional researcher,” he muses, which means he’s dismissed my name. He looks up, and this time his smile is lopsided, and there might be a dimple hiding under the goatee. “Milwaukee, huh? Say, around the millennium?”

Great. “I’m not the first one?” I tuck my thumbs through my backpack straps but stop myself from trying to blow the hair off my sweaty forehead.

This gets me an actual laugh and he tilts his head toward the other chair. “I haven’t lived there in ages. Which I’m assuming you know.” He raises one challenging eyebrow, but I’m not sure if that’s because I haven’t come up yet or what.

I almost stumble on the steps and I have to pass behind him to get to the chair, which at least looks more comfortable than an Adirondak, and take off my backpack, and sit down semi-gracefully. My skirt’s hemmed below the knee, but we’re still outside and the wind tries to grab it. “I was the initial researcher for the Not Forgotten podcast.”

“Whoa, really?” His eyebrows go up and I get another half-grin. “My mom was addicted. She had me program an alert into her phone so she knows how Davis’s case is going.”

Okay, at least I don’t have to start from the absolute beginning. “You’ve been on the website and seen all the documents and stuff, then?” I don’t really want to call it evidence.

“Oh, yeah.” He shakes his head a little and checks his watch, something large but not a Rolex, except it doesn’t seem like I’m wasting his time. His body language is too easy. “Mom’s mastered the internet, mostly, so she followed along with all the pieces like a proper Sherlock Holmes.”

Sure, because ever since Serial, that’s kind of expected. “Okay, so you’ve seen something like this.” I unzip my backpack and tease a page out of a manila folder.

He sets his book aside, too, but it’s on top of another book on the little table between us, which is weird, and takes the paper. “Yeah, sure,” Jamie Whittaker says immediately, and has he not introduced himself because he figures I have to know who he is if I know when he lived in Milwaukee? “Geographical profile, right? Someone feeds the data in and it’s supposed to pinpoint where the killer lives.” He starts to hand it back.

“Notice anything about the epicenter?” These things are hard to read, so it’s not surprising he didn’t really try. There’s one online, of course, to tie in with the first episode, but it’s not this one.

“Uh.” He frowns, and the depth of the line between his eyebrows tells me that Jamie Whittaker is a man who frowns often.

I can wait. It’s rather nice out here, even though it’s still the end of May and we’re in the Upper Peninsula and we’re both in hoodies. Whittaker’s is over jeans and a T-shirt. His hoodie’s black and doesn’t have anything written on it, but the T-shirt looks like the same cobalt blue as his food truck, a few shades deeper than his eyes. There’s a breeze, and every so often it blows smoke in our direction, but the backyard’s big enough that I guess neighbors can’t complain.

Whittaker lowers the paper and looks over at me. “I’d say you’re here to try to get me to confess to the murders, but they’ve already got the guy.”

It’s my turn to smile tightly. “How much time do you have?”

---

Chapter Two