“I can see that,” Noah acknowledges. “But what about this picture? She's at a victims’ rights conference speaking out in support of defending those who have been wrongly convicted and spent time in prison. Does she look like a shrinking violet to you there?”
The picture shows Lakyn in a sleek suit; her hair pulled back into a bun, and her makeup toned down and sophisticated. She stands behind the podium with her shoulders back, her spine straight, and her chin lifted. There is an expression of determination and drive in her eyes. She's confident and strong.
Another picture beside it shows her in the same outfit having a conversation with a few people. Something in the background of the picture catches my eye, and my heart clenches, but I don't mention it.
“She's not performing,” I point out to him. “She's doing something that matters to her.” I look over at him. “You went to the jail yesterday to do an interview."
"Yes," he says.
"And it was about Lakyn's disappearance," I say.
"It was. But I didn't get much out of it."
"Who was it?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It really doesn't matter. It was a dead end. I should have known better than to even bother in the first place."
"Who was it?" I ask again.
"Just a guy trying to get attention."
"Noah, you're the one who asked me for help with this. If you were being honest about that, then you need to be upfront with me. Who were you speaking with at the jail?"
"His name is Xavier Renton. Look him up. I need to get back to work. I'll walk you out."
His mood has shifted. Whether it was finding out about his team's failure when reporting the information from the database, or me pushing about the man's name, something closed him off. I suddenly feel as if I'm on thin ice. It's a strange feeling to have, considering these aren't even official investigations, but I can't get rid of the voice in the back of my head.
It's the voice that sent me running into the woods. The voice that brought me face to face with darkness. The voice that sent me into the clutches of a cult and put me on a train I knew was careening toward chaos. This is the voice that leads me, and I have to follow it now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next day, I'm sitting at home, the air conditioner cranked to near treacherous levels so I can wear my favorite thick, cushioned socks. They are resting in Sam's lap as I sprawl on the couch, holding a Chinese takeout container in one hand and chopsticks in the other.
“I guess I shouldn't really be surprised that the people across the street didn't have anything to tell me,” I say. “But they seemed surprised I was even asking. The boutique owners told me that the detective had come by and spoken to them. But they seemed really shocked that I would come to talk to them again.”
“What about everybody else? All the other shops and things on that road?" Sam asks.
"Well, to be honest, there aren't that many. It's a pretty sparse stretch. But I went and stood in every single parking lot trying to figure out which ones of them had a good enough view of the bank to have possibly been where that picture was taken."
"And?"
"And as far as I can tell, it was either taken from the far back corner of the parking lot of the boutique, or from the middle of the road. The positioning just doesn't make sense otherwise. I guess it could have been taken with a really good zoom lens by someone moving, but that doesn't make sense, either. I talked to the people working there, anyway, and none of them had anything to say."
"They weren't being cooperative?" he asks.
"Not on purpose. They just genuinely had nothing to add to the conversation. Most of them knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Lakyn Monroe, but more than half of those said they only recognized the name because of the reports of her being missing,” I tell him.
“So much for being famous,” Sam comments.
“It's a pretty specific type of fame, I think. Among those people who know who she is, the people who think she's relevant, she's everything. But you have to already be the type of person to put stock into that kind of thing. Fame isn't universal. I think people forget that sometimes."
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"There's this sense of shock that she's missing, as if somehow people should be able to keep total track of her existence. Or that there's nowhere on this earth she could go without every person recognizing her. But that's not the case. A lot of people recognize her, sure. But until Dean pointed the newscast out to me, I don't even know for sure I'd heard her name. I definitely wouldn't have been able to pick her picture out of a lineup. The point is, fame is transient and situational. Baseball players may be gods to people who follow the game but inconsequential to someone who doesn't watch sports. Writers get stalked by rabid readers but would go completely unnoticed around people who aren't into their books.”
Sam uses a fork to stab a shrimp out of the container of rice he has balanced precariously on his thigh.
“I don't know if I'm following you. Are you or are you not surprised they didn't seem familiar with her?” he asks.
“That's not it. I'm just saying, there's so much focus on how well-known she is.
