You Can't Catch Me Page 13

  “Is that what you call yourself?” Jessie asks.

  “Not overtly. But it’s the not-too-subtle subtext of the YouTube channel I started. Anyway, we were right. We started filming videos in my kitchen, inviting other chefs I’d heard of from around town to guest on the show and they’d have to say yes, because who turns down a one-armed army vet?”

  “No one,” I say.

  “Exactly. And then we’d get them to promo it to their customers and on their social, and pretty soon we’d taken off. We got this massive bump when Bourdain retweeted one of my videos, and then everyone wanted in on the action.”

  “Advertisers?”

  She finishes her drink. “Yep. Knives, appliances, you name it. I was getting big ad buys. I bought a house, paid off my debts, things were going well. Being relentlessly positive didn’t come so hard for a while.”

  “And then?”

  “The paper did a profile on me. Mentioned the kind of ad revenue I was getting. I got a lot of business from that profile. I even cut it out and had it laminated and hung it on the wall of my kitchen and everything. You’ve got to laugh.”

  “More relentless positivity?” I ask.

  She grimaces. “You know it. Anyway, a couple months later, I got invited to give a demonstration at a cooking expo in Des Moines.”

  “You were flattered.”

  “Course I was. She knows how to get to a person’s soft spot.”

  “Was it made up?” Jessie asks. “The convention?”

  “No, it was real.”

  “Mine was made up.”

  “That right?” JJ gives her a look of pity. But we’ve all been taken for fools.

  “How do you think she managed it?” I ask.

  JJ shrugs. “Never thought much about that part, to be honest. For all I know, she applied for me. It wasn’t a real ‘invitation,’ if I think about it. More like a confirmation that I was attending, with my travel and hotel information.”

  “Applying on your behalf would be easy for her,” I say.

  “For anyone, really. It’s not like they check ID when you’re offering up your money.”

  A group of girls who are clearly part of a bachelorette party tumble into the bar. The bride’s got a toilet paper veil on her head, and her eyes are already moving in separate directions.

  “Good point,” I say. “When did she contact you?”

  “On the way home. There was a group transport to the airport, which meant I got to the airport about four hours before my flight.”

  “So you went to the bar?” I ask.

  “That where you met her—an airport bar?”

  “Yep,” I say. “Not Jessie, but they did go for a drink.”

  “So, she likes to drink,” JJ says. “That’s something, I guess.”

  “Not unique.”

  “She drank scotch,” Jessie says.

  “That right? I guess she likes scotch.”

  “How did she make the connection?” I ask. “About the name.”

  “As simple as introducing ourselves.”

  “And then you played the game?”

  “Jessica Williams Twenty Questions? Yes.”

  “And a few days later, you were missing a bunch of money.”

  “That too.”

  Jessie pulls a pad of paper out of her purse. “We should get all the details, right? Like you did with me? See what we can match up.”

  “In a minute,” I say. “I’m curious about something else first.”

  “What’s that?” JJ asks. She’s almost drowned out by the loud laughter of the bachelorette party two tables over. They’ve all got pieces of paper in their hands, comparing notes about something they find hilarious.

  Sometimes lives intersect at the oddest moments. I don’t ever see myself in their position, laughing without care the night before a wedding, especially not my own.

  “What else did she do to you?” I ask.

  JJ leans back, holding her empty glass against her chest. “She made sure I’d keep my mouth shut. Or that if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “How?”

  “By destroying my credibility.”

  “Why would she do that?” Jessie asks.

  “Probably because I was trying to track her down.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I knew this guy in army intelligence, and he was working on tracing the money transfers. She must’ve gotten an alert.”

  “What happened then?”

  JJ takes out her phone. “It’ll be easier to show you than explain.” She opens her photo app and scrolls through her photos. “I screenshot it all, so I’d have proof even though I had to delete a bunch of my social accounts.”

  She passes me the phone. It’s a picture of a tweet JJ sent out using some super offensive language about the locals she encountered in Afghanistan, saying that she was happy about what she’d done to them.

  “I didn’t tweet that,” she says.

  “Jessica Two?” Jessie says.

  “Of course.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “What do you think? It blew up. I lost sponsors, cancel culture . . . you know. I had to go in person to each of them and explain what happened to me, not that it made much difference. And then I got this.” She takes her phone back and goes to her texts. She hands it to me again and I read it.

  Don’t try to find me, it says, or this is just the beginning.

  Back in another anonymous hotel room, I don’t know what my next step should be.

  Jessie and I left JJ about an hour ago. We found a cheap motel nearby and booked into two separate rooms. JJ didn’t offer to let us stay with her.

  “She doesn’t want us to know where she lives,” Jessie says as we stand in front of our separate doors. We’re somewhere near a highway, and the buzz of cars zooming along pavement fills the night.

  “Trust no one,” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I go through my nightly routine in a desultory way, mulling over the events of the day. At Jessie’s urging, JJ told us that Jessica Two had given similar details about her life to the ones she gave to me and to Jessie. JJ’s Jessica had blonde beachy waves and green eyes, but she couldn’t remember much else. She didn’t have any photographs; Jessica Two had been able to do the transfers without going into the bank. JJ said she’d been pretty, friendly, and sympathetic. All the hallmarks of a good grifter.

  I change into my pajamas, pull back the cheap sheets, and lie on my back. Another cracked ceiling, though the patterns are different. My body is tired, but my brain’s awake—not a good sign for sleeping. My phone buzzes. It’s Liam asking how things are going. I start a text, then change my mind and call.

  “Hey,” he says. His voice sounds worn out—his after-midnight voice—which I know from shadowing him on stakeouts and when I used to help him with late-night sessions with new members of The Twists who needed company to keep the nightmares at bay. We’ve drifted apart over the last couple of years. It’s only now that we’re back in regular contact that I realize how much I’ve missed him.

  “Hey.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Philly.”

  “You met JJ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  Liam’s voice in my ear is both soothing and, to be frank, stimulating. I turn on my side and press my hand between my legs.

  “Jessica Two stole her money.”

  “How?”

  I tell him what JJ said as I press my palm into myself. My breathing is slightly accelerated. This is wrong, to be using Liam this way, but God it feels good.

  “What are you doing?” Liam asks.

  “Nothing.” I pull my hand away and rest it on the outside of the covers. The blanket is old and torn in the corner, and God knows what’s occurred under it. “Talking to you.”

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “Must be the connecti
on.”

  “Mmm.”

  I’m blushing, happy Liam can’t see me. “So, what do you think? What should we do next?”

  “I think you should come home.”

  “Just give up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you checked Facebook or Twitter today?”

  “No, I’ve been busy.”

  “You should.”

  “Why? And how do you know what’s happening on Facebook or Twitter?”

  He coughs. “Miller told me.”

  “Miller told you what?”

  “There’s another story out. About you.”

  I’m fully awake now, all thoughts of fantasy cast off.

  “What about me?”

  “Did you . . .” Liam’s hesitation does not make me feel better.

  “Out with it.”

  “Did you plagiarize your thesis?”

  I sit up. “What? No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  I slaved over that final paper for months, barely getting it in on time. I was proud of it.

  “Well, then, how do you explain it?”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  “I sent you a link. Take a look.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker while I check out the link. It’s to a piece written by my old nemesis at FeedNews, James, who seems to be back, and in my job.

  FeedNews can exclusively reveal that our former reporter, Jessica Williams, has a long history of plagiarism. We’ve obtained a copy of her senior thesis from Columbia. As you can see from the comparisons below, large passages of the document are copied from various other sources without attribution . . .

  “Jess?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Take me off speaker,” Liam says.

  I comply and put the phone back up to my ear. My heart is skipping.

  “You didn’t plagiarize?” Liam asks.

  “No. I swear to you.”

  “Is this just James getting back at you?”

  “No, it’s . . . She did the same thing to JJ.”

  I tell him about the tweet, the aftermath, and Jessica Two’s warnings to JJ.

  “You should come home,” Liam says again firmly when I finish.

  “I will soon.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Jeez, yes, Dad.”

  He clears his throat in a way that lets me know I’ve gone too far.

  “She hasn’t reached out to you, has she?” he asks after a moment.

  “No,” I lie. If I tell Liam I’ve been communicating with her, he’ll be on the next plane to Philly, and I need to do this part on my own.

  I can hear Liam fretting through the line. Pacing back and forth in his loft in the Meatpacking District that he bought a zillion years ago when the early-morning streets were stained with blood, not booze.

  “Jess.”

  “What?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I know. But I’ll be okay.”

  “Will you?”

  “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

  “That’s true.”

  “So, give me some credit.”

  “I give you a lot.”

  I close my eyes. I wish it could always be like this. That there didn’t need to be crises and lies to bring us together.

  “Tell me more.”

  He laughs gently. “Good night, Jessica.”

  “Good night, Liam.”

  “I’ll see you soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he says, then hangs up.

  I rest the phone on my chest and think about all the things that Jessica Two has done. She doesn’t fuck around. But that’s okay.

  I don’t either.

  Chapter 19

  Planning Committee

  After Todd’s funeral, the sun came out, like God approved of what we’d done. Kiki and I left the woods and the others behind and sat on the dock and caught up on what we’d missed in each other’s lives. I had more to tell, as I’d been out in the world, getting an education, living on my own. She’d been trapped in the Land of Todd, where nothing changed, but everything had, I learned, after I escaped.

  “No more visits to town unless you were an elder, no more free time on Saturdays, and all the books were thrown away. A lot of other things.” She shivered though the sun was warm. “They cracked down so that no one else would escape.”

  “But Covington got out,” I said.

  “Covington?”

  “Oh, sorry, that’s the name he uses now. Here, I think he was called Terrence.”

  “Oh.”

  Kiki was blushing. I couldn’t believe it.

  “He’s five years younger than us,” I said.

  “So? He was cute.”

  “Still is. Did something happen between you two?”

  “That’s forbidden.”

  “Oh, Kiki.”

  “What?”

  “Do you actually believe in that stuff? Still?”

  Kiki looked out at the water. It was a large man-made pond, not a proper lake, though we always called it the lake. It was the only place I’d felt free as a child, those moments when we were allowed to cast off our uniforms and leap from the dock into the water. We were plunged into the cool, and we felt cleansed of our lives. At least one thing Todd said was true.

  “I didn’t say I believed,” Kiki said. “I said it was forbidden.”

  “Not now, though.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course. Todd’s dead. You’re all free.”

  She turned to look at me. Her eyes were a clear blue, like the sky above. She was always the most beautiful of all of us, inside and out. Was that why Todd chose me instead of her to enact whatever terrible ritual was waiting for me on the other end of the wedding dress? Because he saw something dark inside me?

  “Are you free?” Kiki asked, and I didn’t know what to say.

  “We need another Jessica,” I say to JJ and Jessie the next morning in another coffee shop with a view of the river. It’s windy out and the river’s choppy. I watch a runner try to keep her hat on as she dips her head and pushes into the wind. “We locate another Jessica and use her as bait.”

  “How are we going to do that?” JJ asks. She’s wearing a different army jacket today, one with a flag over her (our) last name. Her short hair looks translucent in the light from the fluorescents above.

  “I’ve got a friend who has some connections.”

  “Liam, you mean,” Jessie says. She ordered a scone and a yogurt, then put the yogurt on the scone as if it’s clotted cream. It looks kind of disgusting, but I suspect it might be tasty.

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that how you found me?” Jessie asks.

  “That and your nosy neighbors.”

  She bites her lip and looks down into her cup of coffee, milk, and three sugars. She must have one of those bird metabolisms.

  “So, we need to find another victim?” JJ asks.

  “No, a potential victim. We need to create a good target.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “We know how she works, right? One of us does well, gets mentioned in the news, and she gets a Google Alert. So, we find someone who on the surface is a good candidate, and we build up a social profile for her—maybe she has a rich relative die, or something like that, I haven’t worked out all the details—and then we set off the alarm.”

  “Which is?”

  “She talks about how she’s going on a trip.”

  “But I thought Jessica Two was the one who reached out to her victims?” Jessie says. “Like what she did to me and JJ.”

  “Not all the time. She didn’t reach out to me. Look, I know it’ll take a bit of time to plan to get it right. What I need to know is, are you willing to help?�
��

  “Define help,” JJ says. She didn’t order anything to eat, but then again, she slept in her own bed last night.

  “Whatever’s needed, and to be there when it goes down.”

  “Like, actually meet her?” Jessie asks.

  “That was always the plan.”

  She raises her shoulders to her ears. “That sounds dangerous.”

  “I think it’s more dangerous not to do it.”

  “Why?” JJ asks. “What’s happened?”

  “She’s ruining my life.”

  “I thought she did that already?”

  I shake my head. “No. One plagiarism count . . . it’s bad, don’t get me wrong, but I could come back from it. I could’ve laid low and in a year or two when everyone’s forgotten about me and moved on to some other scandal, I could’ve made my way back. People like giving people a second chance, if they’re worth it. If they’re redeemable.”

  “And now you’re not?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Why?”

  The waitress approaches our table with a coffee carafe. I place my hand over my cup. I don’t need any more caffeine today. “This guy that I used to work with ‘found’ my senior thesis from J school, and he says it’s plagiarized. It’s all over the internet. But I didn’t do it this time. That’s not the paper I wrote, I mean, not mostly. Someone’s gone in and changed it.”

  “Couldn’t you prove that was the case?”

  “I don’t think I have an original copy anymore.” I’d thrown all that stuff out when I moved into my current semicloset. “It’s in a digital archive. Who knows if they even kept the paper original. Someone who knows what they’re doing could go in and change some key passages, and there wouldn’t be any evidence left about what I wrote.”

  “What about your senior adviser?”

  “I doubt she’d remember—it wasn’t that good. And imagine how many she’s had to read since then. Now I’m a serial cheater. It’s a pattern going way back. I am totally fucked.”

  “So,” Jessie says, “what’s finding Jessica Two going to do about it?”

  “If we catch her, I can write about what happened to all of us. I can redeem myself. Plus, get my money back. Get your money back. That could help you, too, JJ. And you, Jessie.”

  “How?” JJ takes her coffee black, and the steam’s curling over the cup like a witch’s cauldron.