“He probably changed the names to protect their privacy. Classy. Did you see the comments?” she asked. “Go look.”
I clicked to expand them. Laughing emojis, laughing emojis. Someone named Faith said, “Really, Justin? SMH.” And then a guy named Brad commented, “The next time I come over I’m stealing the stick to your blinds.”
I was laughing over my phone.
“Check out the way the dog looks,” Maddy said.
“What about him?”
“The dog looks comfortable with him. I always look at the animals in pictures, it tells you a lot about the person. Like, I can totally tell when someone borrowed someone’s dog for their profile pic. The dog’s like, ‘Okay, don’t know you but I guess.’ Scroll down,” she said. “See? Look at the one of him on the sofa.”
There was a shot of Justin on a couch. On one side he had an arm wrapped around a little girl who was sleeping curled up against him with her head on his chest. The dog was sleeping on the other side with his chin on Justin’s thigh. The picture was adorable.
“That dog trusts him,” Maddy said. “And that’s a rescue dog, so that means something. They’re usually all skittish and freaked out.” She went quiet again looking at his wall. “Go down further,” Maddy said. “The billboard.”
I scrolled a few pictures down and there it was. The infamous sign. And Justin hadn’t been kidding, it was bad. I already knew what it looked like from Maddy’s Google search but seeing it from the apartment was a whole different thing. It consumed the entire window. “Oh wow. Yeah, Justin’s definitely not the asshole. That’s a lot.”
The picture had been taken from the kitchen, so he could get the entire view. Since it was a studio, it only had the one large sliding glass door, and the whole thing was filled with a grinning, bearded middle-aged man dressed like a king, holding a plunger over a clogged toilet.
“He’s got a bed frame,” Maddy said.
“So?”
“So that’s a green flag. The closer to the floor the bed is, the worse humans they are. Every guy who pretends to forget his wallet on a date a thousand percent sleeps on a futon or a mattress on the floor. I make them send me a picture of their bed before I show up. And I deduct points for sleeping bags as blankets, even if they do have a headboard.”
“Why?”
“Because sleeping bags have floor energy?”
“What if it’s a bunk bed?” I said.
“That is the only circumstance in which my theory doesn’t hold up, but that is also why I require bedroom photos before I meet them.”
“You kill me.”
I zoomed around the photo at the rest of the room. His bed was made with a beige duvet. A neat desk with an elaborate computer set up on it. Three large screens and a keypad and wireless mouse in the middle. There was a tiny dog bed next to the desk and a potted plant in the corner. Artwork on the walls. It was a nice apartment—minus the view. He was obviously clean and had good enough taste.
I scrolled down to look at the rest of his photos. None with girls. Several with what appeared to be his family—a teenage boy who looked like a fifteen-year-old version of Justin, same dimples. A girl who was probably eleven or twelve, and then the little sleeping girl from the couch photo, who couldn’t be more than five. He’d tagged who I assumed was his mom in the pictures and I clicked on her profile, but it was private.
“I found him on LinkedIn,” Maddy said. “His full name is Justin Dahl. He’s a software engineer.” She went quiet again for a few moments. “His dad died a few years ago. I just found an obituary that mentions him. Yup. That’s him. Same kids from his Instagram. He’s got three siblings. Alex, Chelsea, and Sarah.”
“How did his dad die?” I asked.
“It just says ‘unexpectedly.’ He was only forty-five. Sucks. Hold on, I’m checking the sex-offender registry.” She typed into her phone for a minute. “He’s clear.” She set her phone down and picked up her wrap. “I don’t see any red flags here, other than he’s got a J name. J-named men are the worst. I’m following him on Instagram from my throwaway account to keep up surveillance. You may proceed.”
I looked at her, amused. “Proceed to do what?”
“I don’t know. Keep talking to him. See if he’s normal.”
“He seems normal,” I said, looking back at the phone. “We’re the ones who aren’t normal,” I muttered.
He’d sent the Beetlejuice photo nine minutes ago and we’d already deconstructed his entire life. I’d seen his face, his family, his apartment, his dad’s obituary, and I knew where he worked.
Then I looked at the time. “Oh, crap, we gotta go.”
Maddy checked her watch. “Shit.” She took one last bite and got to her feet. We cleared our table and ran to the ICU. Justin didn’t reply before I went back to my shift.
That night after work Maddy made dinner. Grilled portobello mushrooms and rice pilaf. I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, then took a shower and blew out my hair.
I was in my pajamas and in bed when I finally saw the DM from Justin. It was from right after I’d gone back to work from my lunch break.
He sent me a picture of himself. It wasn’t one on Instagram. He was in his living room and the billboard was behind him over his shoulder. He was holding the dog.
Justin: So you know that I’m not actually a Beetlejuice character. Please don’t be an undercover reporter trying to blow the lid off the Good Luck Charm story.
I laughed and started typing.
Me: So this is Chad?
Justin: Brad. I changed the names on Reddit. Hope is actually named Faith.
Me: Ah. And how does Brad feel about being internet famous for being an asshole?
Justin: He thinks it’s funny. Because he is an asshole.
I made an amused noise.
Me: You weren’t kidding about that billboard.
