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 – coming October 6
