Catch up on the previous chapters here
Thom was apologetic about how Ben’s name got out, at least to the FBI, but practically gleeful that they seemed to think he’d cracked a cold case. Everyone’s going to read it and read it again to figure out if you actually wrote a thriller. I’ll pass it on, but I’m sure they’re going to leak that part. Let the feds decide whether to say anything or stay mum. We’ll work up some more responses for the tour.
Okay so now, wherever she was, she was going to have to read that he’d written a book that made her out to be the killer. That was not at all how this was supposed to go. He was still thinking about her, yes. He put all this time into showing her that he understood her, yes. He thought she was a murderer? God, no.
Thom had always been about riding the publicity, but he also hadn’t actually expected anyone to make the connection. It was a small college, anyway, so the chances of an alum from the proper year picking it up and realizing was slim, but now … now Ben didn’t know what to do.
He’d made his peace with the unknowns of the original plan, or at least he’d told himself he’d made his peace with it. She was probably out there somewhere in a small Midwestern town, but she might not hear about the book in time to make it to one of his events. She might know in time but not be able to travel to an event. She might not hear about him until after it came out, and maybe only after the Netflix deal went through—if they actually made it and didn’t just secure the rights—and it might take a second book. Or she might contact him through his new author website sometime down the road, only after she’d learned about and then read the book. But this? She couldn’t even show up and throw eggs at him at one of his events and scream at him for calling her a murderer without outing herself as said suspected murderer. This … was not good.
Ben wanted to write back to Thom immediately and make sure that, whatever got leaked, it was clear that he didn’t actually think she was a murderer. Except that didn’t make sense, because Rosie and Cal were only characters. It didn’t matter if he, the human author, didn’t intend for his book to be read this way, because you had to let go of your creation when it escaped into the world. What people thought about your book was a reflection of them, not you, and you had to let them see what they saw in the mirror, even if you didn’t see it. That was part of Thom’s lecture to all debut authors.
And, since Rosie was fictional, it didn’t matter if she was the murderer or not. Since all of the characters were fictional, nobody was actually killed. It wasn’t a real crime. Ben shouldn’t worry about it the way he was worrying about it, because instead of helping—or making—him find her, the feds had just ensured he never would.
He was sitting down, so his knees didn’t give out, but he froze. The feds had just ensured he’d never find her. Writing it down would make it feel too true, so he ran it through his head again, giving the words their own specific weight. Trying to figure out if it was true.
Should he have done anything differently? No matter what, he would’ve told someone about his weird interview, because he was a commodity they were selling along with his book. Various lawyers would want to keep their fingers on the pulse, just in case he became a liability. And the average person would reach out and tell someone if something like this happened, just because it was so strange and unique. It was the sort of thing you’d text a friend about—You’ll never freaking guess what just happened—if you had friends.
He didn’t have friends, so he emailed his agent. Thom at least didn’t seem upset that he hadn’t tried contacting him earlier and, say, brought a lawyer to the interview, but he only repeated the same explanation he was helping Ben peddle: sure, the book was vaguely inspired by the events of that year, but the newspaper clippings were just seeds. Everything that grew was his author’s imagination.
Maybe Thom agreed with the idea that Lida-Rose Dawson could’ve been a murderer. Or maybe he just didn’t care, because it was far enough removed from reality that they wouldn’t get hit with libel. It wasn’t Thom’s fault. That much was clear, at least. Thom worked with what he was given, and really, Thom was the reason Ben’s plan had any chance of working in the first place. Thom didn’t reject the query. He asked for more, and then he made the offer, and then he managed to sell it. The plan could’ve failed at any of those points, but Ben had a box full of hardcover copies and the tour schedule. It was happening. It was happening, but now …
The feds were so pissed at one of their own for hiding her that they were going to warn her to have nothing to do with him and his book. Maybe she’d even think that he’d planned it this way and always meant to trap her—for them—after all. Hillier. Goddamned Hillier.
A different stillness settled over him. Earlier it was ice, but now … was it calm?
He couldn’t Google Hillier without leaving a trail, and he didn’t have a phone book—what house still had phone books these days?—but he thought he knew where he could find one. It wouldn’t even be weird for him to go to the library. If he used one of their computers he’d have to sign in with his card number, but if any place had a paper phone book, he’d find one there. He’d look up a couple numbers and write down some of the others, and memorize Hillier’s address, and then …
The thing was, he’d only ever planted his bugs at places where he’d been invited in and left alone. When people paid you to clean, they didn’t usually stick around to watch you do it. There was a record of your presence, sure, but D&L promised background checks, and now Ben had his own business and all the various reassurances that yes, he was who he said he was, and he wasn’t going to steal or destroy property or whatever. Plus he had the van with his business name, logo, and contact information on the side, so he clearly wasn’t sneaking in. Word of mouth got around, and he even worked clean-up on crime scenes, so he was trustworthy.
Ben had never attempted breaking and entering before. He wasn’t even the kind of guy who loitered. When he parked, it was never at a yellow curb and he always paid the meter or moved before time was up. He didn’t even like going five miles over the speed limit or running yellow lights, which would have made him blend in with everyone else so much better. There was nothing in his past to aid him, no experience with this kind of thing, and yet …
Yet he was planning on stalking an FBI agent. Maybe doing more than stalking. Probably doing more than stalking.
It was unlikely that he’d confront Hillier and get an address out of him just like that. Didn’t they train agents in counter-interrogation techniques alongside interrogation techniques? At the very least Hillier would know everything they told them about being on the question side of the table, and how to control the situation, and what not to let a suspect get away with.
Maybe the library had a book about interrogation for dummies. Ben sure as hell wasn’t going to check one out, but after he consulted the phone book, he could take a stack to a table, page through some things, and then put them on the cart they left so you wouldn’t just reshelve things. They’d be counted as being used, but he didn’t think anyone would be able to tell he was the one who’d pulled them. Okay, he’d wipe them down surreptitiously before he returned them.
At this point, he had to be careful. He figured—hell, he knew—he was willing to do more in this quest than the agents were, because he wasn’t worried about having to keep working for the man. Or holding on to a government job. He’d been fingerprinted, sure, so he had to be wary of that, but they didn’t have his mug shot or anything. Plus he could change his looks fairly easily—he’d had his beard this way for years, but shave it, and cut his hair, or straighten it … all before he even got around to dyeing it … and he wouldn’t be easily recognizable.
Goodwill. He could go to Goodwill and get some different clothes. Some shoes, definitely: used shoes with a wear pattern that didn’t match anything else he owned. God, he was really planning this. Maybe the library was something that could be considered a whim, since it was just information, but once you started playing out counter-forensic measures …
They brought it on themselves. Hillier and any of the feds who got in his way. They all did their part in keeping him away from her.
Ben took another breath, giving himself a chance to see if he really meant to do this, and then nodded and got up to grab his keys.
To: MathyMart
From: LidaRoseElizabeth
Sent: May 23, 2019 10:32PM
I am so. Freaking. Glad. You’re coming down tomorrow. Heidi’s not being picked up until after dinner, but the apartment’s ours all weekend, and thank God. I don’t care if the neighbors hear us, but I don’t need her being all judgmental and denying it. She always says it’s just her face, but I’m pretty sure her face reflects her internal monologue.
Less than two weeks and we’re not roommates anymore. Did I tell you she’s actually counting it down? On the calendar in the kitchen, too. She says she made a mistake about which day’s graduation, but I think we all know better. Those numbers don’t really go down to zero—they go down to when she gets to be one again, in an apartment for two, because apparently now she’s figured out how she can afford it.
Whatever. Let her be excited about it. She’s so rarely happy about anything, so I can be gracious and glad she’s excited about me leaving. I mean, we both know I’m looking forward to it, too, but that’s because it’ll be you and me in your tiny apartment and we won’t be able to get away from each other, oh no.
Heidi and I were never going to be best buds, but first winter break was so freaking long and then Kelsey and Ashleigh … the problem, I think, is that Heidi’s not close with anyone, so when her only friends are gone, but they were closer with me, anyway, and when everyone tries to talk to or comfort me instead of her … she feels slighted. Like nobody even saw her relationship with them, except they didn’t, because she plays everything so close to her vest and doesn’t go out. When they hung out with her, it’s because they were over here, where nobody but me saw them, and now she’s upset …
It’s fine. We’re almost done. You’re almost here, and then I’ll officially be there, and Heidi can do what she thinks will make her happy. Do you think it’s possible for some people to just … never be able to be happy? Like, ever. Take her anywhere, give her anything, and it won’t be enough. Dissatisfied is her default setting, except I’m not sure it’s possible to install an after-market happiness button. Maybe she’s just doomed to always be nothing more than okay, usually rating things a two out of five, for the rest of her life.
It’s exhausting living with someone like that. Maybe Sierra didn’t actually find herself in Belize. Maybe she just found something better than spending another minute with Heidi.
God, that makes me sound awful, but some people … they just refuse to see the light, so you’re mad if you try to point it out. And then you basically give up and stop trying, and maybe you even start trying not to see it, so you don’t have to keep ignoring it …
Point is, I think I annoy Heidi as much as she annoys me, and we’ll both be glad to be rid of each other, and then I get to have you, all the time, every night, even if you smell like fast food. I’m sure you’ll find something other than fast food, but if that’s the option, I’ll take it. Do you think that would make good wedding vows? For better or for worse, smelling of cologne or fast food …
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. XXX. Both kinds.
Chapter Nineteen – coming January 19
Rebecca Frost 
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