False Impressions (16 page)

I ordered a club soda with lime and made my way around the place, all the while keeping an eye on Madeline. The place was dark, sexily lit with candelabras, filled with little conversation nooks and crannies.

After the second round about the premises, a bartender signaled at me. I went up to the bar.

He pushed a martini glass across the bar. “Your friend said to give you this.”

I sipped it. “A lychee martini?”

The bartender nodded. I turned and found Madeline with my eyes. She was sitting at a high-top table now, with the original two guys plus three others. She glanced at me and winked. Then she nodded at the dance floor in front of her, as if to say,
Think about getting out there.

I made mental notes about each of the guys she spoke with, utilizing the way I’d seen witnesses and suspects described in the police records that had become a part of my legal world.
Male, light brown complexion, eyes brown, short hair.
And
Male, Caucasian, eyes blue, hair gray
and so on.

The lychee martini slid down nicely, and Madeline was sitting tight, so I could scan the crowd for anyone who was watching her, as well. No one stuck out.

I took a few steps back and ordered another martini from the bartender. When he delivered it, I took it to the edge of the dance floor on my side of the room, looking around, checking out the DJ, dissecting the group of girls now behind Madeline.
Female, dark complexion, eyes green, hair—braids.
But no one I saw seemed to be super aware of anything but their own fun at that moment.

The second martini went down smoothly, perhaps too much so. The blonde started to sway her hips to the music. This soon drew a few guys my way. They were all very cute, all seemed very nice, but if I paid attention to them, I wouldn’t be able to do the same for Madeline.

To get a little privacy, I stepped onto the dance floor, made my way about ten feet forward, past a few people. I was far enough from Madeline to observe her and those around her.

I swayed my hips some more, but I must have looked mechanical because Madeline glanced my way, frowned and made a show of taking a deep breath in, then letting it out, then nodding her head my way.
Try it. Relax. Enjoy.

So I did. I closed my eyes, and I breathed. Then I did it again. And again.

The music pulsed around me; it pushed and pulled me, that’s what it felt like, suddenly. I let my head fall back, but I kept my eyes closed, and inside my lids I saw red lights that spun, sparklike, over the room, breaking up before they hit anyone on the dance floor. Before anyone could feel them. Except for maybe me.

I liked this blond thing. I liked how my hair was like white light, wispy. Without my heavy, long curls, I felt free to take in more, something I’d been doing since I’d met Madeline—more emotion, more desire, more everything.

I sensed a shift in the crowd, sensed I had been given more room. I heard Madeline’s message again—
relax
—and so I kept trying. I let my arms fall out from my sides, let them arc as I spun more.

“That’s enough.” The harsh words jarred me, the voice even more so.

I stopped, felt the wisps of light hair hit my face and then settle on my neck.

His eyes bore a disappointed—or was it disgusted?—tinge. I felt a wave of shame, but then pushed it away. I would not be shamed by this man. Oh, no.

As if to steal some power from her, I gazed across the room.

But Madeline was gone.

“Let me guess,” Detective Vaughn said. “You had a friend who was here, and now she’s gone. Again.”

“She is here.” I looked around. Didn’t see her. “I was watching her, because we’re pretty sure someone is following her, and…”

I was relieved, despite myself, when I glanced at him again and saw that the potential disgust disappeared from his features. But then Vaughn frowned. Deeply. More disgust? Or just confused disappointment? Both?

“Did you pay to get in here?” he asked. Vaughn crossed his arms.

“I came with my friend,” I said.

“There’s still a charge.”

“What are you, a bouncer now?”

Vaughn uncurled his arms. He wore his gray coat and jeans rather than his usual khakis, along with black snow boots.

“Turn around,” Vaughn said. “Hands behind your back.”

“Excuse me?” My tone was indignant.

He repeated his words. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

I still couldn’t read the expression on his face. He was frowning, that much was clear.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do you favor and cuff you in the front.”

I felt something cool against a wrist. I looked down, saw something silver, heard someone say in my mind say,
Handcuffs? Really? A little much, don’t you think?

But no sarcastic or other actual voice came out of my mouth. And so I was wordless as Vaughn and I both stared at my hands, as he finished one motion—
click
—then another.
Click, click.
Our eyes met. He looked surprised or maybe regretful. I almost thought he was going to apologize to me, but then he led me out.

37

T
he police?

Yes, an officer apparently, because the man was flashing a badge. Then flashing handcuffs.

Was it cracking apart—this life. (This
was
a life, wasn’t it?)

Had revenge gone too far? Were the police in on it?

But no, he was handcuffing the redhead. He was taking her outside.

And that’s when a wonderful realization hit—Madeline was alone.

38

I
t had been snowing—thick, fast snow—when Vaughn and I had first gotten in the car. Now, as we headed down Western Avenue, outside was a blur of white, the snow pelting the windows of the car.

“I
have
to find Madeline,” I said.

He ignored me.

“Vaughn, seriously. Someone has been following her. As a cop, you should be helping me.”

Still nothing.

“Give me back my cellphone,” I said.

“Can’t. Protocol.”

“Don’t be a jackass.”

He glared in the rearview mirror. “Say that again and I’ll book you for something else.”

I was about to ask what in the hell he was doing, when sirens screamed and a snowplow barreled through the street, making way for two ambulances.

The night was veering away from me, the situation hard to process. Although I’d been questioned by the cops before, although Vaughn had had me in the back of his car recently, I’d never actually imagined myself being arrested. Not ever.

And what of Madeline?

The blonde wanted to give him a piece of her mind, but more sirens, more plows barreling and then a fire truck.

What is happening?

I bit my lip. Stayed quiet for a few minutes.

“Goddamn it!” Vaughn said, smacking his dashboard.

“What are
you
all worked up about?” I said.

“Shit,” Vaughn said.

“What?”

“Shit.”

I looked outside, saw drifts of snow collecting along the street.

“I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” Vaughn said, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Vaughn turned onto a side street to avoid hitting cars that were starting to get stuck in drifts. “Shit,” he said again.

The side street was narrow and covered with more drifts.

“It’s a one way,” my blonde said, unable to help herself. “You’re going the wrong way.”

Vaughn said nothing, and somehow I could feel his stress pouring through the hole in the safety glass between the front and back seats. There was no point in trying to get him to help me find Madeline until he calmed down.

“So,” I said, trying a nicer tone. “Are we supposed to get a lot of this stuff?” Outside the window, snow pounded harder. It began to be difficult to make out the homes on the sides of the road.

Vaughn lifted his chin, moving his face toward his rearview mirror, so I could see his irritated expression. “You fucking kidding me? There’s a blizzard coming.”

“Right. Snowmageddon. Well, if there’s a blizzard coming, why are you out picking me up from a nightclub for… What was it again that you’re charging me with?” I said this somewhat nonchalantly, but frankly I was scared suddenly.

“Why am I picking you up?” Vaughn said with scorn. “Because you’re getting in trouble. Because you have to turn this ship around.”

“Turn this ship around?” I repeated incredulously. “What does that even mean? And more importantly, why are you captain? Or first mate?” And the blonde was back.

“Did you pay to get in that place?” he asked.

“I came with my friend,” I said. “The one who’s missing.”

“There was still a charge.”

“Are you seriously arresting me for not paying a fifteen dollar cover?”

Nothing from Vaughn.

“Why do you even care?”

Still no comment.

“Well?” I said, leaning toward the safety glass and angling my mouth toward the talking piece. “Well?”

I was about to demand that he stop the car and let me out. I was about to argue that he had no cause to arrest me (although I could probably make an argument for the other side of that, as well). I was about to tell him again that I
had
to find Madeline. But then the car stopped.

I looked through the front windshield. It was hard to see with all the snow, but I could feel what happened. The car had stopped. We were stuck.

39

M
inutes—very slow minutes—passed. Minutes that consisted of Vaughn swearing, hurling himself out of the squad car and into the storm, and scooping at the tires with a tiny shovel that looked a lot like a kid’s toy, which he had unearthed from the glove box.

Vaughn stomped around the squad car and rocked it back and forth. He had had enough decency to take the handcuffs from my wrists, and so now I sat inside, worrying about Madeline, watching Vaughn. Every time he glanced at me, he scowled more.

He got back inside muttering, “Fuck, fuck.
Fuck.
”

“For a police officer in the city of Chicago,” the blonde said, “you are remarkably ill-equipped to handle this situation.”

He said nothing, which just ratcheted up the blonde’s desire to tweak him. “Seriously,” I said. “That shovel? Or whatever you call it? Was that issued by the department?”

“My partner always handled the weather.”

“That big guy?” I thought of the first time I met Vaughn—in my law office, after Sam disappeared—and how his partner then was a tall man with hands as big as catcher’s mitts.

“Yeah.”

“So where is he?”

“Budget cuts.”

“And yet, with all the budget cuts, you’re spending your crime-fighting time on this? Really?”

Apparently, Vaughn was done talking about that. He rubbed his hands in front of the heater, then left the car again.

I peered through the window, through the snow, as Vaughn made his way around the car, trying to dig out the wheels of the car with his gloved hands now.

He got back in.

“I want my phone call,” I said to him.

He turned around, scowling. “What are you talking about?”

“I want my phone call.”

“You’ll get your phone call when you get to the station.”

“But clearly you can’t
get
me to the station.” I held out my hand. “So I want my cellphone back.”

He took my phone out of his jacket and handed it to me.

40

M
adeline got into bed, shivering.
Where was Izzy?

At first, it had seemed fun. The opening, the club, seeing Izzy as an exquisite, sexy blond. She could tell Izzy was serious, on the job. But it seemed apparent after a few hours, by the time they reached the club, that no one was following her. And so Madeline began to send Izzy signals to go ahead and enjoy, breathe into it. Eventually, Izzy had danced, and watching her turn into someone else on that dance floor was a delight.

But when she looked back again, Izzy wasn’t there. Initially, she’d chuckled. Maybe Izzy was playfully getting her revenge, getting back at her for the time Madeline herself had disappeared from the club. But that was crazy. Izzy wasn’t like that.

And that’s when she saw across the room—a guy about forty leading Izzy out of the room. In handcuffs.

She’d run outside, just in time to see him put her in a car.

She stood there shivering, not knowing what to do. Her purse and her coat were inside. After a few minutes there was no sign of Izzy’s return, making her feel increasingly vulnerable, alone. She called her, but got no answer. She went into the bar, retrieved her things quickly.

Back outside, she saw the snow coming down harder. She decided to go home while she still could.

She found a cab, and thankfully, made it to her apartment. When she reached her bed, she was exhausted. From all of it—from the forgeries and the emails and the comments and the letter and the knife sculpture. She had never been a worrier. She realized now she had never before had anything to truly worry about.

She shivered in bed, the exhaustion building until she finally fell sleep. Her dreams were strange—so strange that she tried to wake herself up, but she couldn’t.

In one dream, she was like the painting in her gallery—one woman, but two different versions. Then, the dream shifted and instead of seeing the two Madelines side by side, as in the painting, Madeline instead saw the doorway of her bedroom open, saw a version of herself standing there. She stared. Her alter ego stared back, and the delusional dream moment lasted an eternity.

At first, their gazes felt comforting. But then the dream took on the quality of a nightmare. The self in the doorway was angry, her stare a sneer, and suddenly Madeline Saga was terrified.

It was then that she heard the sound, and it pierced the vision.

What? What was that?

Her cellphone. Grateful to wake, she gulped in air and grabbed it from her nightstand like a lifeline.

41