Have any of you been using a pre-paid phone?”

No one speaks up, which is pretty interesting, since Jessie knows I have a throwaway phone in my suitcase and I happen to know Alison has been using one for months.

“How about you, Miss Hill?”

I shake my head.

Broadus says, “Reason I ask, the day the money was transferred to your account, David made two calls to that number in the space of thirty minutes: just before, and just after the transfer was completed.”

“So?”

“Considering there’s no record of you and him calling each other, I’d say that’s quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you?” He removes his phone from his pocket, selects a number from his call list, and says: “I’m going to call that number right now. Wouldn’t it be funny if we hear it ringing somewhere nearby?”

“Hilarious.”

Once again I feel Jessie’s eyes on me, or at least on my suitcase, as Broadus presses the key. And though we’re all listening intently, I already know the phone he’s calling can’t possibly be heard ringing, since I stomped it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet in the women’s bathroom at the Chevron station at Exit 53 on I-64 outside Frankfort, Kentucky, while Michael was gassing the car up yesterday. The throwaway phone in my suitcase was purchased last week by a teenager I met in a shopping center next to a Wal-Mart, and hasn’t been used yet. When Broadus ends his call, I ask, “Was there anything else, Detective?”

“Yes. Do you off-hand know your social security number?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“I do, but I’m tired of playing your stupid games. If you want it badly enough, look it up in your law-enforcement database.”

“Actually, I did that last night. And you know what I learned?”

Of course I do. But I wait for him to say it: “Nicki Hill doesn’t exist.”

Poor Michael. Despite realizing he’s just become a millionaire, he’s having a rough time, evidenced by the look of total bewilderment on his face. He points his finger in my direction and feebly says, “She’s right there.”

Broadus says, “She might call herself Nicki Hill, but her real name’s Katie Walker.”

My eyes go straight to Alison’s face to see how she reacts, and all I can say is, either the lady doesn’t know the name (which I doubt) or she deserves an Oscar. Apart from the split second her eyes may have widened, it’s hard to tell. But what strikes me as curious, for all the astonishing police work Detective Broadus has accomplished in the last twenty-plus hours—and let’s give the man his due, he’s done an amazing job—even he has no idea who Katie Walker is, and why this revelation has just become a total game-changer.

Part Two:
Michael, Jessie, and Alison

1.

Michael

EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO I was sitting in a Starbucks waiting for a 22-year-old divorced aerobics instructor named Chrissy to show up and rock my world. We met on a dating site, but she obviously changed her mind about me because she never showed. At the point she was officially 30-minutes late, a stunning brunette (think: Alicia Vikander, the actress) jumped into the seat across from me and whispered, “Act like you know me.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a guy,” she said, as if that explained everything.

I started to look over my shoulder to see who this guy was, but she said, “Don’t do that. You’ll tip him off.”

“To what?”

“The fact I’m ditching him.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Excuse me? You honestly think I’d go out with a guy like that on purpose?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t actually seen him yet.”

“Well I just saw him, and I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Fair enough. Can I ask you something?”

“Please do! It’ll make us look like a couple.”

“If you keep sitting here, am I apt to get beat up?”

“Do you think I’d put you in that sort of position?”

“I truly don’t know.”

“Want me to leave?”

“No.”

She smiled. “I’m not telling you my name.”

“That’s okay. I’m Michael Thorne.”

“Hi Michael. Thanks for letting me sit here. Don’t worry, I’ll bail as soon as it’s safe.”

“No need to rush.” I paused. “Why are you afraid to tell me your name?”

“I’m not. I just know you’ll forget it.”

“That’s impossible. You’re literally the prettiest girl I’ve ever spoken to.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell me your name. I’m dying to know.”

She stared at me a moment, then said, “Nicki Hill. Say it three times.”

After I did she said, “You’ve been great. Want my digits?”

“Absolutely!” She took my phone, typed her name and number into my contact list, then stood, walked to the front door, opened it, looked in all directions, and left.

By then I was completely under her spell.

From that day to this we’ve argued 90% of our waking hours, broken up more times than I can count, got engaged twice, and in all these months I’ve fucked her exactly—don’t laugh—three times. We’ve done a lot of fooling around, meaning I get to touch her from the waist up on a semi-regular basis, but not below the waist, because she’s got serious issues.

How serious?

Let’s put it this way: every time I tried to touch her private area she broke up with me. As for the three times we had actual intercourse? None lasted more than a minute, and in all cases she locked herself in the bathroom afterward.