The Stories You Tell

by Kristen Lepionka

  Jordy opened the refrigerator door. “BPG has a name? Corbin?”

  I nodded.

  “And has he heard from her?”

  “Well,” I said, “it seems like maybe he doesn’t actually exist.”

  Elise, clutching a purple sock, said, “What does that mean? She made him up?”

  “No, no, I think she probably has been talking to someone who calls himself Corbin, but that’s not his real name. His Facebook page is just a prop, really—no actual engagement, just connections to people around town who have a lot of ‘friends.’ In the interest of full disclosure, my brother is one of them.”

  The two women exchanged glances.

  “I’m telling you that because I want you to trust me,” I said. “Andrew tends bar at the Westin now and he accepts friend requests from anybody who sends him one. So the person behind the Corbin profile could be some random hotel guest that Andrew talked to once.”

  Jordy closed the fridge, slowly. “Okay. So you came all the way out here to tell us that?”

  I shook my head and thumbed my phone screen until I found the Addison profile, the one she connected to Corbin with. “This is the first one I found. She used her real Facebook page to sign up for this.”

  Elise and Jordy bent over the kitchen counter to study it. “‘Least likely to,’” Jordy read. “God, she’s so weird. In, like, the best way.”

  I navigated to the Addy Marie profile.

  Jordy flipped through the images, stopping on the one of Addison in a bikini. “Whoa. I mean, that’s Addy, obviously, but she’s not really the dressing room–selfie type.” She looked up at me. “Why did she make two different profiles?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you might.”

  Elise said, “Didn’t she have some issue with her Facebook getting hacked a while ago? Maybe she had to make a new BusPass profile too.”

  Jordy was still looking through the images of Addison. “This is so strange. It’s like, clearly this is her, but also the Addison I know would not put a picture of herself in a bikini online. Or probably even take a picture like this. But here it is, this picture exists, so I guess she’s changed a little.”

  “I’m told getting older does that to a person,” I said.

  “Yeah, but does it make you more likely to take a picture like this? Or less?”

  Jordy held up the bikini shot. Addison looked completely relaxed, smiling faintly.

  “You know how she’s into all that personal development stuff,” Elise said. “Her crystals and bullet journals and intentions and whatever. Maybe she’s kind of using the app to get more comfortable with herself.”

  “Bullet journal?” I said.

  “It’s like a planner, except you draw it all yourself? I don’t know. I think she saw it on Pinterest.”

  Jordy handed my phone back to me. “Good grief, Addy’s on Pinterest too?”

  Elise pressed a palm onto a stack of neatly folded onesies. “What’s wrong with Pinterest?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with Pinterest. It’s just that she’s always been so anti. You know? The only reason she even got Facebook is that she wanted to set up a page on there for her deejaying stuff. People were constantly asking her for a website or whatever, and she didn’t want to make a website, so she decided to just use Facebook. But obviously you have to have a profile before you can make a page, blah blah blah.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like her to actually respond to a missed connections post either. But she did that. You don’t think people can change?” Elise said.

  Jordy leaned onto her elbows on the counter. “I guess they can, and do,” she said grudgingly. “But where is she? How are we supposed to know where to look if she’s turning into this completely different person?”

  The motorized whine of a garage door going up drifted through the kitchen.

  “Uh-oh, quiet time’s over,” Jordy said.

  The door swung open and Elise’s kids tumbled into the house, shrieking, “Mommy, we had cake for breakfast!”

  “You had cake? Where?”

  “Chocolate cake with coconuts!”

  “Brock,” Elise said, her hands on her hips.

  A beat later her husband appeared from the garage, arms full of assorted baby gear and a bag from Cabela’s, the big hunting store north of the city.

  “Hello, ladies,” Brock said. “Oooh, you better have brought more of that chicken, that was so good—”

  “Brock. Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  The happily married couple disappeared down the hall. Jordy held a hand to her throat and drew a slow horizontal line. “Dead meat, Brock is. God. What kind of person takes his kids to the gun store on a Sunday morning and then feeds them cake?”

  That was a pretty good question. “Maybe he was shopping for hiking boots?”

  “That fat ass? No.” She made a face. “I shouldn’t say that. Addison hates when people talk like that. Brock is the worst but that has nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his awful personality. She could do so much better. I mean, Elise is the queen of getting what she wants. But sometimes it just seems like she’s given up.”

  Elise and her husband emerged from the hallway. Brock looked deeply chagrined. Elise cleared her throat.

  “I apologize for what I said about the chicken,” Brock said, making grudging eye contact with me.

  I had to restrain a laugh. “No worries. It’s good chicken.”

  “I don’t know how exactly you came to be friends with my wife, but I sure do appreciate having another foodie in the house.”

  “Friends?” Jordy said. “I mean, Roxane, no offense.”

  Brock looked at her blankly.

  “Roxane’s the private investigator? Who’s looking for Addy?”

  “Addy?”

  “Jesus Christ, you don’t listen to anything your wife says to you.”

  “What about Addy?” His hands were out to his sides like he was about to link up in prayer.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I sensed a touch of darkness entering Brock’s expression.

  Elise placed her hands down on the counter as if she could smooth out the situation with the right amount of pressure. “Brock, I told you all of this. No one has seen Addison for like two weeks and we’re really worried.”

  Brock folded his hands together over the top of his hat and let out a long stream of air.

  From elsewhere in the house, the playful shrieking of the kids turned into a mournful wail.

  Elise picked up her laundry basket and said, “If you’ll excuse me. Thanks for the coffee.”

  When she was out of earshot, Jordy punched Brock in the bicep, hard. He made a noise that sounded like oof and clutched his upper arm in pain. “What was that for? Shit.”

  “That was for being a dumbass.”

  “God, you’re strong.”

  “It’s not strength, it’s strategy,” Jordy said. “Shall I demonstrate again?”

  Brock picked up his coat and the Cabela’s bag, wincing slightly. “That won’t be necessary.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Shelby had left a note on my front door—hot sauce taste test now in progress! I realized I’d forgotten to check the mailboxes and made a mental note to do it later as I climbed the steps to her apartment. I heard her voice, along with Miriam’s, laughing. When I knocked on the door, Shelby called, “It’s unlocked.”

  I went in. “Look, not to nag, but you really need to lock this door.”

  “No, I know!” Shelby said. “I do! But I heard you coming in and unlocked it just a second ago.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I can always tell it’s you. You have a specific sound.”

  I waited.

  Shelby got up from the sofa and pantomimed opening a door. Then she stepped in, stomped her feet, and sighed like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  Miriam giggled. “Dude, that’s totally what it sounds like.”

  “I don’t want t
o track snow into my apartment,” I said, pointing down at my boots. “Whatever. I was promised hot sauce.”

  Shelby pointed at the spread on her coffee table. “From mild to hot,” she said. “Made with dark chocolate, chipotle, and a touch of orange.”

  I sat down cross-legged at the table and broke a cracker in half and dipped it in the first cup. The flavor was smoky and sweet, with just a little bit of heat to it. “Shel, this is delicious.”

  “I think this might be her new calling, actually,” Miriam said. “Hot sauce maker.”

  “Feel free to go into business,” I said. I tasted the others; as promised, they got progressively hotter. The fifth and final option made me cough.

  After Shelby got a cup of water for me and I had regained my composure well enough to speak, I said, “This is the one. Can I have a jar of this?”

  “What, you like coughing like that?”

  “It’s not for me—for my case. But if you have extra of the first one, I’ll take a jar of that.”

  Miriam dipped a cracker into the mild version. “Is six dollars too expensive for hot sauce?”

  “Hey, I thought we had a deal.”

  “We do,” Shelby said, “though I notice you’re empty-handed.”

  “I’m going in a little bit. I promise. So what’s this six dollars about?”

  “For Shelby’s future hot sauce business.”

  “Six dollars? No. I bet you could even charge eight if you put it in a fancy little bottle.”

  “I love fancy little bottles,” Shelby said.

  * * *

  Back in my own apartment, I got more water—my throat was still on fire—and sat down to take a look at Rose Warner’s BusPass profile to see if her messages to Addy Marie’s connections had gotten a response.

  BD E said, Hey urself ;)

  Joseph J said, Slut

  Rajit M didn’t say anything.

  I felt a flash of gratitude that I had a person already—fickle though she might be—instead of having to pursue online dating.

  To BD E I wrote, what’s up? ;)

  To Joseph J I wrote, you say that like it’s a bad thing ;)

  BD E responded almost immediately.

  BD E: Nothing, just chilling. U?

  ROSE W: Same

  ROSE W: It’s so cold out chilling is all you can really do

  BD E: Lol

  BD E: Not really ALL u can do …

  ROSE W: Lol you don’t waste any time

  BD E: Life is short

  BD E: Anyway I don’t know what ur thinking about, I meant I’m watching the game and working out

  ROSE W: And texting girls on here ;)

  BD E: Hey u wrote to me if I recall

  ROSE W: True

  BD E: So how are u keeping warm

  ROSE W: Day drinking

  BD E: Yeah? What’s ur drink

  ROSE W: Rosé all day, of course

  BD E: Lol

  ROSE W: What do you drink?

  ROSE W: Wait, let me guess

  BD E: Ok

  ROSE W: IPAs

  BD E: Lol yes how’d u know that?

  I started to type, because I’m a detective, then reconsidered.

  ROSE W: Lucky guess

  BD E: So why’d u message me?

  ROSE W: I liked your bio. Why’d you message me back?

  BD E: because why not?

  BD E: brb

  He went offline a beat later. I checked my thread with Joseph J, but he hadn’t responded again. Still nothing from Rajit M, either.

  It was only five o’clock, but the light was already low on the street outside. My office took on a bluish cast from the screen of my computer. I reread the conversation with BD E. No one had ever solved a case based on a bullshit chat window. I wondered what life would be like if I’d taken the job I was offered around this time last year, at the fancy security firm. I would have had to buy new clothes, for one thing. But I’d also have cases that were straightforward, where I knew exactly what to do and how to do it, where I’d probably avoid going deep into the weeds on a dating app and asking my teenaged neighbor to make hot sauce for me.

  Sometimes, I couldn’t imagine things not being this way.

  Other times, like right now, I was in the mood for a change.

  I closed the computer, plunging my apartment into darkness.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The midwinter evening sky was pitch black, the roads quiet. No one was going anywhere. It was too cold, too slippery, why bother. Even though the weekend still had several hours of life left to it, the cloak of darkness made it feel like the day was over already. But Shelby had come through with her end of the bargain, so I needed to come through with mine. I checked the four post office boxes, starting with the location on Parsons and finishing up on East Main, collecting seven new packages in total.

  The errand had taken forty minutes. There was still a lot of night left.

  I stood in the Main Street post office, the light sickly yellow and dim, and looked through my reflection and out at the street and called Catherine.

  “Are you ever coming home?” I said when she picked up.

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Three sleeps turned into an entire week.”

  She hesitated before she answered, just a second. But enough for me to notice. “I am home.”

  I watched as my reflection ran a hand through her hair, a sad, tired lady in a shitty post office with a stack of plastic mailing envelopes in front of her. I said, “Really.”

  “I just got here. I took a cab home from the airport. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Catherine, what the fuck?”

  “I was trying to be considerate.”

  “Considerate would have been actually telling me what was going on with your flight or whatever.”

  “Why are you still trying to fight with me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Just come over.”

  “No.”

  A tense silence filled the line. “No?”

  “No, I don’t want to come over. I’ve had a terrible week, and I don’t feel like talking about it, and I want you to tell me what’s going on instead of just leading me into your bedroom and making me forget anything was wrong in the first place.”

  Catherine sighed. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Just tell me.”

  I didn’t think she was going to do it. I was about to say forget it and hang up when she shocked me by saying, “I had a job interview. In Rhode Island.”

  I turned away from the window and focused on the rows and rows of antiqued-gold mailboxes. “You had a job interview.”

  “Yes—”

  “In Rhode Island. This week.”

  “Yes.”

  “So the whole thing about the conference was a lie?”

  “No, there was a conference. But I also met with the dean at RISD.”

  “The dean.”

  “Yes, it’s an amazing opp—”

  “This wasn’t a first interview, then. The dean didn’t happen to meet you at the cheese tray.”

  “Roxane.”

  “You went to Rhode Island to interview for a job, and you didn’t mention it to me?” I felt like throwing up.

  “I didn’t know if I even wanted the job.”

  “Again, you didn’t mention it to me?”

  “There was honestly no point, not when I didn’t even know if I would, one, get the job, and two, want to take the job.”

  “But you do.”

  “I wish you would just come over.”

  “So we can have this awful conversation face-to-face? So you can look me in the eye when you tell me you’ve been considering a job opportunity in another state and I wasn’t even worth telling about it?”

  “I’m telling you now,” she said, and I choked out a strangled laugh. “And, honestly, I tried to tell you. At the airport. But you were so distracted by whatever mystery of the day you just have to solve that—”


  “No. No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to rewrite history to make this my fault. You randomly asked me to come with you on your trip, with zero notice. That’s not the same thing as telling me you want to move to Rhode Island with me.” I paused, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe what you’re telling me is that you want to move to Rhode Island, period.”

  “No, of course that’s not what I’m saying. I want to be with you.”

  I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and scooped up my packages. “In Rhode Island. Not here.”

  Now her voice was going up a bit too. “It’s worth discussing, isn’t it? Providence is a great city.

  “So is Columbus. My entire life is here. My business, my family—”

  “You can build a new life, with me.”

  I pushed out into the cold night air. My breath came in frustrated puffs. “Catherine,” I said, “you’re acting like the lack of discussion here is my fault. You’re the one who chose not to tell me.”

  “Why would I bring it up, if I didn’t even know if I wanted it or not?”

  “Because it’s a conversation that involves both of us!”

  “My career involves both of us?”

  “Whether or not we’ve been building a life together sure as hell does.”

  “This is why I wanted to talk to you in person.”

  “This wouldn’t be any different in person! Jesus Christ, how do you keep finding new ways to do this to me?” I threw the packages onto the passenger seat; now I was a lady shouting into her phone in a parking lot.

  “I think that’s a little bit hysterical.”

  “Hysterical?” I said. “Hysterical?”

  Catherine was still talking in my ear, but I said, “I can’t do this right now.”

  “You can’t do this right now? You started it.”

  “How did I start this? You’re the one who didn’t think to mention you’re considering moving—”

  “Yeah, and you’re the one acting like a lunatic right now, even though you started this—”

  “Good-bye, Catherine,” I said.

  I was shaking as I stood there with the door of the car open, the dome light casting jagged shadows across the pale leather interior.