And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Kevin Tompkins had finished arranging the trash and recycle bins at the curb and was now picking up litter from the sidewalk. Was he currently on leave? Was he as interested in dating Isabel as his mother was interested in him dating Isabel?

  Gray’s phone vibrated.

  How will u help?

  Isabel!

  Easier to explain if I call you.

  Gray would ask the three questions.

  Isabel would answer them.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  It was a text and selfie from Hank Wexler, the hot bartender at Sam Jose’s. He was holding a strawberry margarita.

  Your name is on this & something else.

  His dazzling blue eyes looked silver, Nosferatic.

  Gray’s stomach flip-flopped, and the Camry’s temperature rose to Jupiter levels.

  Then Isabel texted:

  Don’t want to call. Can be traced. U don’t understand!!! He will kill me if I come back. Please drop this!

  “I do understand.” Gray could give TED Talks on “Ways That Life Sucks.”

  She tapped the phone icon next to Isabel’s name. The line rang and rang. Don’t go. Please don’t go. And she’d barely caught her breath before the phone pulsed against her ear.

  I’m not going to talk to u

  OK, Gray texted, have Tea talk to me face to face.

  No response.

  Isabel Lincoln had ducked back into her bunker.

  EIGHT YEARS AGO

  THE FIRST

  Mrs. Dixon had always been tiny. Malnourished as a baby, she always looked hungry, like food only passed her lips on bank holidays. Standing next to Sean—six three, two hundred ten pounds of college-ball muscle—she was the butterfly to his vulture.

  She loved his hands. Loved those beautiful, long brown fingers, crooked from old breaks caused by catching flying pigs. Strong hands.

  After checking into their Jacuzzi suite on the twelfth floor of the Bellagio Hotel and Casino, after watching the famous water show from their living room window, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon shopped at Armani, Chanel, and Gucci down on Via Bellagio. At Cartier, he bought her a diamond for her nose.

  “Damn.” Sean gazed at the stone he’d bought her. “You are fuckin’ fly, baby.”

  A perfect first-year anniversary weekend already, a staycation that would’ve been the envy of her friends … had they known.

  As the sun set over Sin City and they ate dinner at Le Cirque, he toasted her. He told her, “You are my life,” as the sky turned pink, red, and desert blue. His love was astonishing. White hot. Phosphorescent. His love made Mrs. Dixon close her eyes and look away.

  You deserve this. After everything … You deserve this. This man. This joy. This two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. This lobster risotto. Lift up your head. You deserve this.

  Her happiness made her dizzy, Disneyland teacups dizzy—she now knew this feeling, since Sean had taken her to the Magic Kingdom for her very first time. She liked that feeling then—Disneyland would never make her sick sick; they loved her—and she liked that feeling now. In the last year, Sean’s love had exploded all around her. Like mink-lined shrapnel, his love had struck her in unexpected ways. But she didn’t fear it.

  She had thought her diamond engagement ring—three carats, princess cut, smaller baguettes on each side, worth two paychecks, she’d been told—made sparks fly out of other girls’ eyes. But it had been her simple, sleek platinum band that had sent those bipedal, stiletto-wearing hyenas stampeding and frothing at the mouth. She’d caught the gold ring (well, platinum) and she’d sure as hell celebrate.

  And celebrating—that was their (well, Sean’s) business. And he’d gone all out for her on their special weekend, even though living in Las Vegas had lost its glow. Too loud, this city. The world’s toilet, this city, where everybody came to take a dump and live their worst lives.

  Tonight, she’d play.

  She was Mrs. Sean Dixon.

  One year of wearing his name. One happy year flossing that platinum band that, in some types of light, resembled sea foam. One year of wearing designer clothes and pushing a Jaguar. A dream life.

  After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon took a town car to dance at Club Rio, the location of his client’s event on this night. After dancing, she took the third position at a blackjack table with a twenty-five-dollar minimum bet. She didn’t like playing with such a high minimum, but Sean had a reputation to maintain. No five-dollar shit for his wife. His wife.

  Since he was a lousy blackjack player (he claimed it was a boring game that had nothing to do with skill), Sean stood behind her chair.

  The dealer laid before the little lady in the red and black Betsey Johnson party dress a six of diamonds and a four of spades. The other bettors had numbers, which meant aces and faces had to come next.

  The rich, red-faced Texan on her right had been cursed with a ten of diamonds and a three of clubs. So he doubled down on Mrs. Dixon’s ten. The dealer slipped an ace of clubs on that ten. Twenty-one! Everyone—except Sean—whooped and clapped.

  Texas patted her hand with his pudgy one, then squeezed. “Keep the money, darlin’.”

  Two hundred fifty dollars. She kept the money. A thrill ran through her. Like she was wine-wasted and owned all the cheese in the world.

  Sean glared at her. Didn’t congratulate her. Didn’t say a word to her after that. He walked in front of her. Wouldn’t hold the doors open for her. He was mad.

  They returned to Club Rio and Sean danced with stripper-body Chyna—he knew her from back in the day. He bought skinny blonde Anise drinks—it was the first time that they could party without having to work. He found every reason to avoid returning to their table and sharing the bottle of Moët. Prince’s “Adore” played—their song—and Sean stayed on the other side of the club, joking with some skank who slouched and couldn’t even walk right in her heels.

  His silent anger, though, was better than his active anger. Not that he’d hit her or anything. Sometimes, it had just felt like he would.

  10

  Pens—I need pens.

  Gray pawed through the Camry’s center console and found two new ballpoints. She scribbled on a page in her binder—plenty of ink. Then she rolled down her car window and sniffed: eucalyptus and skunk. No scent of ham or bullshit—Ian O’Donnell hadn’t arrived yet.

  That moment ended, though, as a dark gray Porsche raced in Gray’s direction. The convertible swerved into a parking space closest to the entry gate. The blond man behind the steering wheel didn’t climb out of the car.

  Neither did Gray.

  Ian O’Donnell held a phone to his ear.

  Gray picked up her own phone—fully charged now—and aimed it in Ian’s direction.

  “Just ignore him,” Ian was saying. “There’s nothing that says you gotta answer his text.” He laughed that big cannon laugh that men give women while talking on the phone. Extra loud. Overcompensating so that it could be believed, since it couldn’t be seen.

  “You act like you don’t see me all day,” Ian continued. “No.… Well, she’s … I know.… I’m here now.… I know it’s not cheap, but I gotta look for her.… Ha!… Maybe she’s transgendered or … Her name … I know, right?” He laughed again, then looked at his watch. “There you go again with the ‘chocolate factory.’ … Cuz I hate it when you say racist shit like that. I can’t believe you’re jealous of a … Not my type, no.… She’s not my type.… I wouldn’t say she’s fat…”

  Ian was talking about her.

  “She’s … chubby, like what’s-her-face from American Idol, Jennifer … That one. Seriously.… Ha!… No, you’re my … I am being serious.” He flipped down the visor mirror and picked at something stuck between his front teeth. “Yes, I will.… Gotta go.… She’s gonna be here … Yes, I’ll call you after.… Okay.… Me, too.”

  Gray glanced at the time stamp on the phone. 0:00. Shit. She’d forgotten to tap the big red Record button.

  Ian O’Donnell climbed out of the Porsc
he. He still wore his blue surgical scrubs—sunshine and honey for some women. He tossed a glance up the street and peered at his watch. He muttered something, then shook his head, frustrated with the chubby, transgender chocolate private eye with the dude’s name. At the security gate, he punched in the entry code, then disappeared into the shadows.

  Gray whispered, “Be nice,” then grabbed her binder.

  Outside, the cool air had a crisp bite. A sweet kiss after this damn hot day.

  Her phone vibrated as she crossed the street. It was Ian.

  Where are U? Been waiting for 10 min now

  Liar.

  Gray texted, I’ve been waiting for 15 minutes. Defeat a big lie with a bigger truth.

  Ian returned to the security gate. “You should’ve texted me.”

  Always someone else’s fault.

  He led her to the same blue door she’d discovered minutes ago without his assistance. “That’s a damn long time to stay in your car. Dangerous. It’s rough over here.”

  Right now, eucalyptus trees swished in the wind. No trash, broken glass, or cars on blocks at the curbs. Brown-skinned millennials wearing Lululemon wore buds in their ears as they jogged in pairs or biked in groups. Rough.

  “You talk to Tea yet?” he asked.

  “Just a text so far, but I can tell that she has very strong opinions about you.” Gray paused, then asked, “Oh. Do you know if Isabel took her car when she left?”

  “No. It’s out back.”

  The red Honda Prelude sat in its carport, locked and dusty.

  “You have the key?” Gray asked.

  “Nope.”

  As they walked back to the front door, Gray asked, “Do you wonder how she left, then?”

  “Uber maybe? Or maybe Tea drove her somewhere? Doesn’t matter—she’s gone.” He slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the blue door. Cool, vanilla-scented air rushed toward them as he hit a light switch.

  “She’s still paying the utility bills?” Gray asked.

  “No, I’m still paying the utility bills. Again: nice guy.” His eyebrows lifted as he watched her take notes. “You have pens that work this time. Good job.”

  Gray blushed, then wrote, “JERK.”

  The small living room boasted cheap gray carpet, oak furniture, oak cabinets, and white tile. The blueberry-colored couch looked too stiff to be comfortable, and it matched absolutely nothing else in the room. Not even the orange and yellow throw pillows on its cushions.

  The clean kitchen sparkled but smelled of chlorine bleach and the bananas on the counter, which were so shriveled and black that not even fruit flies swarmed around them.

  “Do you know if she was injured before she left?” Gray asked. “Like, did she have any cuts or bruises? Sprained ankles or…”

  Ian shook his head.

  “In your opinion—medical, personal—was she … suicidal?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Tea concocted this story about Iz taking pills before disappearing.”

  “When was that?”

  “The Friday night before Memorial Day. Whatever. It’s not true. You just don’t get better through prayer after taking a bunch of Tylenol PMs. I told Tea to lie better, especially about shit like that. Isabel takes a bunch of pills one day and has the energy to leave L.A. two days later without medical intervention? Bullshit. It’s not happening.”

  Standing this close, Gray could better study Ian’s face. There were no scars from a woman’s fingernails. No almost-healed bruises beneath his eyes. No cuts on his lips. He was a perfect-looking man with perfect-looking skin.

  “This place is tiny, right?” Ian now asked. “It’s two stories and still cramped.”

  “Good size if it’s just you.”

  “So are coffins.”

  A book of word searches had been left on the couch. A pack of Kool menthols sat on the coffee table next to an empty ashtray. No lighter. No matchbook.

  “She smoke?” Gray asked.

  “Sometimes.” Ian tucked his hands beneath his armpits.

  “It’s her birthday tomorrow,” Gray said.

  “Whose?”

  Gray looked back at him.

  Blank face. Eyebrows not even crumpled. Not even trying to figure it out.

  She said, “No one’s,” then sighed, her heart breaking a little more for Isabel Lincoln.

  The staircase walls were lined with photographs of Isabel and Ian in happier times. Kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Embracing in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

  “I paid for these quick little trips,” Ian said, “and I had more lined up for her. I wanted to show her the world outside of L.A., outside of the U.S. Be her tour guide through life, I suppose. Be there when she saw the Taj Mahal for the first time, or tasted a real Italian pizza—with the egg on top? I treated her like a princess, and this is what she does?”

  But something about those pictures in Paris and Saint Martin made Gray nauseous. And the sweet-sticky words Ian was now pouring down her throat … Before today, she’d never swallowed, but, in her effort to “be nice,” she forced those words down and offered a sad smile. “The women at the Alumni Center mentioned that you and Isabel were supposed to go away on that Memorial Day weekend. They say that you didn’t show up. Is that why she took the pills?”

  Ian squirmed. “Umm … Again, I don’t think she took those pills.”

  “You didn’t mention that trip to me.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “So, what happened?”

  He blushed. “I had to work—she refused to accept that. She liked the benefits of dating a doctor but hated me being a doctor. This is Los Angeles and we have a lot of heart patients and sometimes I need to stay and help out, even when I’m supposed to be having downtime.

  “I mean, if she needed cardiac care, she wouldn’t want to hear, ‘Oh, the doctor is on vacation, miss, you’re just gonna have to wait, unless you want this second-year putting in your pacemaker.’ I don’t think so.”

  Gray said, “I get it,” and this time, she did. She’d never needed a cardiologist, but emergency room doctors had stitched her up lots of times. She’d never thought about their wives or their kids or their postponed trips to Borneo as they treated her. Not once.

  The steps groaned as Gray and Ian climbed them to the second level. “According to her coworkers,” she said to Ian over her shoulder, “you were supposed to propose that weekend.”

  “Propose? Marriage?”

  Gray nodded.

  He laughed a laugh as real as Parmesan cheese from a green can. “She always expected me to follow this script in her head about what’s supposed to happen and when. Month anniversaries. Our engagement. How I was supposed to propose. Where I was supposed to propose. I got tired of her micromanagement, to be honest, and so I decided not to obey her and to propose when I wanted. Which would’ve been on July fourth, our one-year anniversary. But of course, she was gone by then.”

  They reached the guest room, which was nearly bare except for a pair of battered sneakers and a large pile of clothes on the carpet. The blinds were closed. The room stank of sweat, other body odor, and that dirty laundry.

  Gray and Ian entered Isabel’s bedroom. Books, pens, and notepads lay everywhere. The sheets on the full-size bed twisted around an empty gym bag. A thick fuchsia vibrator poked from the linens. Eye shadows, mascara, and lipstick tubes cluttered the nightstand and dresser. Two L’Oréal hair color boxes sat on top of the DVD player.

  “Did she color her hair recently?” Gray asked. “On the intake form, it says her hair is a dark golden brown.”

  Ian didn’t answer. He was staring at the vibrator.

  Gray cleared her throat, and asked, louder this time, “Did she color her hair?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The hair dye was Black Sapphire. One box was unopened, the other was empty.

  In the master bathroom, there was a black tinge near the bathtub drain.

  Gray took a picture of the t
ub and a few close-ups of the stained drain. “She probably dyed her hair. The proof of life picture will confirm that.”

  Ian pointed at an Apple Watch sitting in its slim white box. “She left it. I paid out the freakin’ nose for that thing.”

  Isabel had followed the first rule of disappearing: don’t get attached to anything you can’t leave behind in five seconds. She sure as hell didn’t want to be tracked by a fancy location beacon on her wrist.

  Nothing obvious in the room belonged to the doctor.

  “Did you ever stay overnight?” Gray asked, trying to ignore her need to pee.

  “Of course I did.” His phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. “It’s the hospital. Gotta take this.” He headed for the door, then looked back at her. “You do not have permission to take anything, understand? I don’t want her pissed at me when she comes back.”

  “So, you do think she’ll come back.”

  “Once she realizes she’s being stupid, yes, she’ll come back.” Ian pointed at her. “I just need you to help me help her accept that sooner rather than later.”

  Gray gave him a thumbs-up to his face and a middle finger to his back. She opened the top dresser drawer. Panties and bras in every shade. Something else glimmered beneath the piles of lingerie, but she left it there and snapped a quick picture instead. In the second drawer, she found T-shirts and yoga pants. Nothing special.

  There were framed pictures on top of the bureau—the same picture of Isabel standing between the Lou Rawls and Clair Huxtable look-alikes and a picture of a diverse klatch of women wearing ski gear, with white snow twinkling behind them.

  There were no spatters of blood or ripped curtains hanging limp like a woman’s wasted-away corpse. Gray heard no screams in this room, but dread still coiled in her gut. Why?

  In the closet, there were no red-bottom shoes, but plenty of heels, sneakers, and sandals that cost less than a concert ticket. Gray poked around in the darkness until her fingers found something hard, boxy, and cold. “What’s this?” she whispered.