Page 12 of In Her Eyes
He pushes the recorder closer to me. “Tell me everything.”
And I do. I reach for the box and take the necklace out. He moves like he’s going to stop me and then sits back. I close my eyes and shield myself against the onslaught of emotions. I’m better prepared now that I know what to expect.
The images come again, more vivid somehow. Less gray, more colorful. I repeat everything I told Lynn and more. Some details become clearer as I speak. When I open my eyes and look at him, his face is expressionless. He’s a mask of self-control. His eyes are as cold as ice. I set the necklace back in the box. A shiver runs down my spine. The little hairs on my arms rise. I rub my palms against them to erase the sensation.
“Where were you on the night of June fifteen?” His words are casual sounding and yet measured.
“June fifteen?” That was a week ago. “I was in London.”
“For how long?”
“London itself, five days.”
“And before that?”
“Paris. I was in Paris for four days. London for five days and after London, I went to Amsterdam for a day. I came back last Friday, the seventeenth.”
“Vacation?”
“No, work.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes, I can prove it. There are stamps on my passport, hotel reservations in my name, people I met.”
“Here,” Lynn says, shoving her cell phone across his desk. “See, she sent me this picture from London Bridge.”
He looks at the picture. And I know what he’s seeing. Me, wearing a gray pencil skirt and a white blouse. Black Louboutin heels. I look older and more sophisticated in that picture. I need to. It’s hard enough being much younger than the other art curators, but to also be female? Well, that’s just too many strikes against the old boys’ club. If it wasn’t for Grandma having paved the way for me, I would have never had the chances and opportunities so early in my career. He looks back at me, at what I’m wearing. Cutoff jeans shorts, a Metallica T-shirt, and sneakers. Real-life me and work me are worlds apart.
“That picture could have been taken at any time.”
“Why do you want to know where I was, anyway?” I know the answer as soon as the words are out of my mouth. How could I have been so naïve? “You think I had something to do with the murder?”
“I didn’t say that. And this isn’t a murder investigation. This is a missing person investigation.” His poor excuse of a denial doesn’t put me at ease.
“But you do. You don’t believe a word I said. You think I’m involved somehow.” He doesn’t deny it. “Does that thing work?” I point at the computer on his desk. “Can you access the internet on it?”
He gazes at me for longer than necessary before turning to the monitor and tapping on the keyboard. The machine comes to life after several seconds. No background picture, just a boring, solid dark blue color.
“Go to Google,” I order. An eyebrow pops up, and he waits an extra second in defiance. Then, he opens a browser and goes to Google.
“Type in London, British Museum, my name, and June fifteen.”
Google does its magic, and several hits show on the screen.
“Click on the first one.” It’s an article showing the unveiling of a new Egyptian exhibit. In the first picture on top of the page, you can see me along with several other important names in archeology. Our names are tagged in the article. He reads it. Looks at the picture and back at me. Looks at what I’m wearing again. The lack of makeup and the completely different version of me in front of him.
“How old are you?”
I don’t see why it matters. I look younger than I am, so this is a question I get a lot. Especially dressed like this. “Twenty-eight. And you?”
He ignores my question. “What exactly is it you do?”
“I’m a curator and authenticator. I work with museums worldwide, examining ancient artifacts. I organize exhibits, assist the local curators, sometimes work as a liaison between different museums.”
Lynn’s chest poofs out like a proud mama hen. “She’s lowballing you. She’s a double major in Art History and Archeology with a master’s in Historic Preservation.”
“Lynn.” I try to stop her. After Grandma, my best friend is my biggest cheerleader.
