My head won’t stop spinning.
I shut off the television and close my eyes for a minute. It’s only been a day since I shot and killed a man in an Upper West Side penthouse, but what I’ve just seen has changed everything.
I try to picture Douglas Garrick. I can clearly see his slicked-back hair, his deep-set brown eyes, his prominent cheekbones. I’ve seen him countless times in the last couple of months. And that man on the television news report was not him.
I don’t think so, anyway.
I dig out my phone and pull up the internet browser. I have searched for Douglas Garrick before, and there have always been articles about his CEO position at Coinstock, but never any photos. However, now dozens of links fill the screen, and I can click on any one of them to bring up that same headshot of Douglas Garrick.
I study the photo on the screen of my phone. This man has a passing resemblance to the man I know, but it’s not him. The man in the photograph has at least twenty or thirty pounds on the man I met, and that crooked left incisor is different as well. And his features are all slightly different—his nose, his lips, his slight double chin. Although I suppose some people do look different in photographs than they do in real life. Maybe he’s airbrushed a lot?
Maybe it is the same person. It has to be, doesn’t it? Because otherwise none of this makes any sense.
Oh God, I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Maybe I really am going crazy. Maybe I have been having a secret affair with Douglas Garrick. I mean, that detective certainly seemed to have a lot of evidence. And apparently, Wendy Garrick said it was true.
But I didn’t spend the night in that hotel with Douglas (or whoever the man I knew to be Douglas was). And I can prove it. Because I drove back to the city after dropping Wendy off. And I have a witness.
Enzo Accardi.
I’ve been reluctant to reach out to Enzo, but I don’t have a choice. My boyfriend has abandoned me, which wasn’t entirely surprising, but nevertheless heartbreaking. I’ve been terrible at getting close to people over the last four years because I’ve been so scared of what they’ll think of me when they find out about my past. And I was right. The second Brock learned about my prison record he was gone. So here I am, with nobody in my corner. Nobody who believes in me.
Except Enzo. He will believe in me.
And if he doesn’t, that’s how I know I’m really in trouble.
I find Enzo’s name in my contacts, waiting for me as always. I hesitate for a split second, then I click on his name.
The phone has barely rung when he picks it up. I almost burst into tears at the sound of his familiar voice. “Millie?”
“Enzo,” I manage. “I’m in big trouble.” “Yes. I see the news. Your boss is dead.”
“So, um…” I cough into my hand. “Is there any way you could come over?”
“Give me five minutes.”
