She’s becoming the face of the city to me, the body of the lush woman that is New Orleans, and I’m figuring her out. I’ll walk these streets and trace the planes of her body, and turn it all into a bestseller.
Then everything will fall into place.
19
Juliana
Andrew has been absentee for several days now. I’d say he’s avoiding me, but it feels like more than that. I do my job, handling the preparation of an eighty-three-year-old man whose family reminds me a bit of the vultures that swoop down on road kill. Some people make me wish for the ability to go back in time and show a stranger the love that we all deserve.
The truth is that I think most of us could stand a little more love, a bit more hope, and a lot more peace in our lives. These are, also, the sorts of thoughts that come from too long alone with the dead.
Between the location of my work and Andrew’s absence, I am forced to admit that my complete lack of a social life is exceedingly apparent. There is, literally, no need to leave the house. So, I’ve been using it as an excuse to lose myself in my research.
I’m haunted by the Creeper’s victims. Every flat surface of my room is littered by growing stacks of files—unsorted and sorted cases, my years of notes, and newspaper clippings. Coffee cups are scattered throughout the organized chaos. The worst are the photographs slipping out of their manila folders. I absently tuck them back in every time I notice one. Seeing them without warning, even though I’ve seen them many times before, hurts in a visceral way.
When my research is interrupted by a call from my college roommate, Sharon, I’m excited in ways that might be atypical of a woman my age. A distraction is a welcome thing right now.
“Hey!”
“It’s her, Jules. The missing woman. I know where she is . . . or at least where she was.”
“Who?” I can’t assume. Just because my mind is on this case, I can’t expect it to be at the forefront of anyone else’s mind.
“The one you were looking for last year. Teresa. I saw the articles, too. Another body. Not her. She’s alive, Jules. Your missing woman. Alive.”
“Are you sure?” I’m only awake thanks to the mixed blessings of caffeine and willpower, my stress levels high enough that I float between insomnia and nightmares.
“It’s her, Jules. I looked up old pictures of her before I called.”
I close my eyes in something akin to relief.
So many dead women.
So many lives I can’t save.
I just want to make a difference in this world. I want to do something good, an act of strength against the tide of monsters out there. I know my family worries. Uncle Micky doesn’t comment beyond offers to cover my dark circles and none-too-subtle remarks on the absence of clean coffee mugs. We don’t discuss the fact that both of my parents have called. My mother suggested that therapy might be wise. My father asked if I’m still going to the range.
We all cope in our own ways. I need to try to stop the Carolina Creeper. I need to help these women.
I need to save myself.
Despite all of that, I can’t decide if the call from Sharon is a good thing.
“Jules? If it’s not her, it’s her twin,” she says, calling me away from my worries and weary thoughts. “The heiress.”
“She was an only child. No twin.”
Sharon’s voice softens as she adds, “I’ve seen her pictures often enough, Jules. You’re not exactly subtle in your obsession with these women. It’s her. Her pictures were sent in to the office. It’s her.”
Sharon is an intern at some New York literary agency. She’s wanted this job for as long as I knew her, but I think she hates it. It's nowhere near as glamorous as it looks on television.
“I thought about telling my bosses, but . . . if it is her, she needs someone who doesn’t want to exploit her.” I hear the pause as she flicks a lighter. She quit smoking at least a year ago.
I’m not sure what she’s withholding, but I know there’s more.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
I can hear the crackle of burning paper and tobacco through the phone. She’s somewhere quiet enough to speak privately—which means she’s violating several rules on smoking. New York is on the long list of cities where cigarette bans and restrictions are the norm now.
“I can’t tell you why they have a picture of her because of an NDA I signed.”
“She’s an author?” I try to imagine how the woman I’ve been thinking of as either dead or hostage to the Carolina Creeper could be living a secret life and writing books. Maybe she wasn’t connected to the case at all. Maybe we were wrong about her.
“No.” Sharon lets out a sound that’s laugh-like, but has no humor in it.
“But you’re sure it’s her?”
This doesn’t make any sense. NDA or not, I’m going to find out what Sharon knows.
“Tess. That’s this woman’s name, Jules.” Sharon inhales again. “Fuck. Do you know how hard it is to get into an agency like Wells Literary?”
“I’m sorry.”
I know what she’s about to do before it happens, but I’d bet we both knew what she’d do from the moment she saw the picture. She wouldn’t have called if she wasn’t going to tell me more than she should.
“Check your phone,” Sharon says. “That’s her. She’s in New Orleans. It’s her. I’ve spent enough time looking at this stuff with you. I know it’s her.” .”
“I won’t tell anyone that you told me,” I promise.
“It’ll come out. I can’t tell you why. That part, at least, I won’t tell you, but it will come out . . . and once Ms. Wells finds out I knew who Tess is and didn’t tell anyone, she’ll fire me.” Sharon’s lighter flicks again. “Christ, I hope it’s not even her, but Tess . . . this Tess at least . . . she’s in trouble.”
“I love you,” I tell her.
“Yeah, you too, Jules.” Sharon sounds like she’s done exactly what she has, tossed something she wants into a fire to do the right thing, and I wish I could say or do something to make up for that, but the reality of the world is that it’s not a meritocracy. Doing the right thing doesn’t equate to rewards. In reality, far too often it leads to problems.
Once Sharon hangs up, I open my email. There are a few pictures of a woman who is almost certainly Teresa Morris. She doesn’t look like she’s the heiress in the photos her mother gave us, but she’s the same woman. Dozens of tattoos cover her body—including the flower bud. The tattoo of the victims of the Carolina Creeper marks her wrist.
How did she escape? I debate whether to call Andrew or Henry first. Then it hits me, awkwardly and frighteningly, that Andrew called her Tess. It’s not what most of the articles call her, or what I call her, but I think back over what Sharon told me and realize that she said Teresa is going by "Tess" now.
How could Andrew have known that? Was there an article or . . . Did he know her? He would have told me.
And yet I cannot stop the doubts that fill me. He lied to me. He wants me to stay away from Henry.