28
WHEN I GET out of the shower Saturday night, my phone is still lit up on the counter with a new text from Cecil.
I’d told him I was curious to see the photo of him in his “hippie days” too, and he sent a grainy phone picture of the old film photograph.
I wrap my hair in a towel, another around my body, and then open the message to get a better look, balancing on the edge of the baby-pink tub.
Nothing especially jumps out to me from the image. He’s sitting on a boulder in front of some pine trees, smiling and waving. He’s much thinner and less wrinkled, but the biggest difference between the Cecil of then and the one I’ve met is exactly what he prepared me for.
His long blond hair hangs past his shoulders, gleaming in the light, a thick blond mustache slightly covering his smile.
Is there something kind of familiar about him, or am I just staring so hard I’m willing myself into a sense of déjà vu?
I forward the picture to Hayden but don’t ask any questions.
I’ll figure out why this picture matters on my own, or I’ll wait until this game is over, but I’m not going to let him hand me any information.
In the bedroom, I pull on my pajamas.
Hayden and I decided to do our own things tonight, largely because we both could use the time to catch up on work, and we made plans to explore more of Savannah tomorrow.
I only have one week to push as far into Margaret’s story as I can and piece together a proposal and writing sample, and I’m going to need every
spare second.
But first, I drop the picture of Cecil into a reverse image search.
Nothing noticeably useful turns up, and when I add the surname from his card—Cecil Wainwright—I still find nothing of consequence.
Then again, it’s not like I know what I’m looking for. I close out of the window, tie my hair into a stubby little ponytail, and pick up transcribing Margaret’s story from earlier.
