“Fliss, we found it in the grass. There’s no proof that Noah had it. It might not even be Jen’s.”
I shake my head. “No, it definitely is. I saw her wearing it last night. And I’ll bet she didn’t have it on when she was…when they found her.”
“Maybe she took it off when she was here, or she gave it back to Noah.” Izzy shrugs.
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why would she give it to him?”
“He could have given it to her when they were together.”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
“Jake told me they dated a few months ago,” Izzy says, her voice almost apologetic as she studies the floor. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m saying it now because it could explain why Noah had the necklace.” She looks back at the wall and her shoulders sag. “I think you need therapy, Fliss, if it’s easier for you to think Noah is a murderer than to feel your emotions.”
I flinch as though Izzy has physically hit me. “Is that whatyou really think of me? That I’m some kind of robot who doesn’t have feelings?” Izzy doesn’t answer, just stares at her feet. “You don’t get it,” I say, pointing at the wall. “My feelings don’t matter here! What matters is that ever since I found that stupid painting, someone has been killing girls.”
“Because it’s cursed.” Izzy shudders. “You just have to look at that thing to know it’s evil.”
“Curses aren’t real! How many times do I have to tell you? The painting is involved, yes, but not because it’scursed. The new killer is copying the original murders. Just look!” I fling my arm toward the wall and shout the last words at Izzy, whose face is red with frustration.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!” she yells back.
“Like what?” I sniff, holding back tears. I am not going to let her make me cry.
“Single-minded! I know you, Fliss. You get fixated on things and you don’t let them go until you’ve worn yourself out. I can’t handle another person I love losing themselves to a dangerous obsession.” To my surprise, Izzy is the one with tears rolling down her face. She turns on her heel and disappears down the hall. “I’m going for a walk.”
“What?” I say, my voice rising in alarm as I go after her. “Izzy, you can’t, it’s not safe!”
“Fliss, it’s two p.m. You’re paranoid. I need to get out of here and away from your bullshit!” She swipes her bag from the coatrack and pulls the door open. “Just give me some space.”
“Fine!” I shout as she slams the door behind her. I walk intothe living room so I can watch her from the window and at least see which way she’s heading. Stubborn girl.
I slouch back to my room and the wall rushes to greet me, almost slapping me in the face with its garishness. I try to see the links, but I can’t. All I can see now is what Izzy saw when she walked in—the work of someone who lost their mind for a few minutes. She was right: It looks like something you’d find in a padded cell, not a seventeen-year-old girl’s bedroom.
My eyes lock on the necklace, and I hear everything Izzy said about Noah all over again. I race over and rip it from the wall, then tear down the paintings, flecks of green paint exploding into the air. I try my best to wipe off the writing, but it doesn’t budge. Of course it doesn’t; it’s permanent marker.
My breath starts to come faster and faster. I try to catch it, to stuff my feelings back into my chest, but it’s no good, and seconds later I break down. I lean my back against the wall as I bend at the waist, weighed down by the pure anguish that’s pouring out of me in big, racking sobs. My knees buckle and I slide down, feeling like an overdramatic idiot but having no control over my own body as I land heavily on the wooden floor. The small of my back burns as it scrapes against the baseboard, but I don’t care. I lean forward to hug my knees, crying so hard I think my heart will break as Jen’s necklace twinkles up at me from thefloor.
THIRTY
I haven’t spoken to Izzysince last night, when she took the spare bedding and decamped to the living room without a word. I think she would have gone home if it wasn’t even more stressful there. I managed to sneak out to the kitchen this morning and carried back as many snacks and drinks as possible, because unless I want to talk it out, which I donot, then I’m stuck in here for the foreseeable future.
I force myself out of bed and tidy up the cereal bar wrappers on my bedside table. I try really hard to avoid looking at the wall as I put them in the trash, but it’s almost impossible.
What was I thinking?
I smooth out the photos of The Four. They’re crumpled and torn now, the edges ripped, and guilt gnaws at my stomach over my behavior last night. Maybe Izzy was right. Maybe I am looking for things that aren’t there. I should leave the police to their thing and concentrate on mine.
I leave the pages stacked on my dressing table and get back into bed with my notebook and iPad. I have another few days to finish the project, but it’s not like I’m doing anything else today, is it? Plus there’s one glaring hole in my research.
I need to identify BBK’s victims.
I plug in the iPad and open the web browser. Where do you start when you don’t know someone’s name? I glance at my notes to see what I already have—an area, which helps, and some dates. Obviously I’ve seen the BBK sketches too, but none of those named a victim. I type “BBK victims” into Google and see the same thing over and over. Unidentified transient women, sex workers…there’s nothing tangible. Another article mentions the fire that destroyed the evidence, and I get annoyed. This is why no one ever managed to link BBK to a real person, whether he was the artist or not. He left nothing behind. I suppose that’s why it’s become such a mystery—people can have their own wild theories and no one can prove them wrong.
I lean back against the headboard and ponder for a second. Would there be a list of people who went missing in New York at that time? There must have been so many of them, and I bet most were never reported, but it would be a place to start. Maybe I can narrow them down by area somehow. I type “missing persons, New York 1911” into the search bar, but the page just fills with stats and reports that I can’t make heads or tails of. I scroll a few pages in, hoping I might find something buried, when a recent article from a website calledThe News Messengercatches my eye, thanks to the phrase “Last known whereabouts New York City, July 1911.”
I open the article, a little rush of excitement flooding through me as I read it.
The Strange Case of Lorenna Randolph