And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  RuPaul was her patron saint, then and now.

  Like the other actors in this city, she only scraped off the paint once every light had dimmed and every eye had moved on to witness the next spectacle.

  No one had seen Gray without her face in eight years.

  Not since her name was Natalie Dixon.

  16

  The buzz from Gray’s phone on the nightstand pulled her from the sleep she’d just found. The digital clock on the dresser blinked five fifty. The world was still as sunlight edged through the bedroom’s vertical blinds. No dust motes had arrived yet to swirl in that young, golden light. The soothing scent of her favorite candle—hibiscus, lily, and melon—still lingered.

  Gray had slept on her back. Slept. Ha! More like catnapped, fifteen-minute snatches of sleep spread over four hours. She’d dreamed a few of those times. Dreamed of driving in an endless desert, dreamed of an icy tornado slamming into Los Angeles and making everything twinkle blue, dreamed of her and Nick eating bright green ice cream out of a tuba.

  Hank’s arm now lay across her chest, a giant protecting his golden-egg-laying goose. He had been a magnificent lover. He’d easily flipped her upside down, not an easy feat with her weight gain, and he’d easily held her up against the dresser and the wall and above the headboard. If she’d worn an Apple Watch, the OS would have called 911, because her heart rate had soared and had scraped the underside of heaven. There were moments when she could have burst, like her appendix had almost burst before doctors caught it during that nick-of-time CT scan.

  Being with Hank had been the most primal thing she’d experienced since … discovering In-N-Out’s secret menu and eating an Animal Style Double Double with banana peppers, Animal Style French fries, and a Neapolitan milkshake in one sitting. Wonderful and dangerous, and she knew now, like she knew then, that she’d be filled with regret and nausea.

  She hurt—a stitch in her side, twinges in her lower back—but she didn’t mind taking one for the team, taking one for wellness.

  Sunlight, flickering now like candles through the slats, danced across Hank’s chiseled face. A perfect and beautiful creature, and in her heart, Gray felt … nothing. Not one thing. It was like the light now shimmering on his face. There, but … not really.

  In one of her waking moments, she thought about making breakfast for her guest—but she didn’t want him finding comfort here. Eggs and sausage don’t equate to marriage … Okay, coffee, that’s it, had been her last thought as she slipped back into another catnap.

  Her phone buzzed again from the nightstand.

  She thought of ignoring it but then remembered that incoming text messages would dictate her Friday. Isabel Lincoln was supposed to provide proof of life pictures—she could have been sending those now. Tea Christopher could have retrieved Kenny G. Ian O’Donnell may have decided to end this investigation altogether.

  In other words, Gray needed to get up and start her day. But it was only 5:52.

  Careful not to disturb her sleeping beauty, she reached to the nightstand for the phone.

  Hank stirred but kept his arm across her chest, fee-fi-fo-fum. He stilled, then sank back into slumber.

  Gray thumbprinted her way into Messages.

  Rise and shine babe!

  “Who is this?” she whispered.

  The text message had been sent to the “Dating” phone number.

  It wasn’t Isabel Lincoln. Wasn’t Ian O’Donnell. Wasn’t anyone associated with the case. Not Nick, either. Not on this line.

  A new text message slid on top of the first text message.

  Been thinking about you all morning. I think about you every day.

  And then, a picture.

  Somewhere in the universe, her bridal portrait sat on a dining room table. That day, she’d worn a five-thousand-dollar white gown like Grace Kelly’s high-necked, long-sleeved, rose-pointed dress. Also on that dining room table, beside her bridal portrait: a silver-slide nine-millimeter SIG Sauer.

  That dress was rotting somewhere in a Clark County dump—Sean had poured a bottle of red wine over it during one of their arguments. He hadn’t hit her that time, just destroyed the gown, something he claimed was his anyway, since he’d paid for it.

  As for the SIG … Sean had pointed that gun at her the first time she told him that she was leaving. He had simply aimed it at her. His finger was nowhere near the trigger, but it didn’t have to be. The menace of that weapon and its hard beauty had cowed her into staying that night and 365 nights after that.

  And now, ice cracked cold across Gray’s face. Her skin and muscles hurt. That picture had exploded something deep inside of her. Gripping the phone, she inched from beneath Hank’s arm, pulled on her robe, then crept to the living room. She tiptoed out to the solarium. Out in the world, there were cars, cars, cars down there and helicopters buzzing high, high, high in the sky, ready to report traffic on the tens.

  She stared at the cars and thought about her and Nick’s drive into Los Angeles on the 10 westbound, a transcontinental highway that started in Jacksonville, Florida, and ended in Santa Monica, California. She hadn’t come from as far as Florida, but she had been tired and frightened and had resolved to get it right, to smile, laugh, and talk, and to never flinch if someone raised his hand to brush hair from her face or to caress her cheek. She came to Los Angeles to live without fear. Now, here she was, in her haven in the heavens. Tired but not frightened. Flinching sometimes, but not all the time. Sleeping most nights without waking in a sweat.

  Progress.

  The phone buzzed again.

  See you soon

  Gray clicked into the Burner app and blocked that number.

  See you soon?

  How?

  Was this a joke? Was this a threat?

  She needed a pull from that frosty bottle of Ketel One. Years ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated to have a drink. Now, though …

  Hank found Gray sitting out in the solarium. He had pulled on his boxers, and they had tent-poled in one place in particular—he wanted more of her. But most of Gray had shriveled into hard pellets that needed more than an erect penis to soften. The kisses he left on her shoulder and neck were not working—she kept her hands clutching her elbows.

  How did Sean get my phone number?

  Had she mistakenly written her number on some public-facing document? Had it somehow been linked to the phone she’d used back then, back when she’d worn his last name? Who had he paid to find her? What database had he used to search for her? When was the last time she’d done a background check on herself?

  Because none of this was possible. None of this was good.

  Sean didn’t even know her anymore.

  If he found her, what would he do? Once, during the second year of their marriage, she’d left him. Six hours had passed before he’d found her at their time-share on Lake Las Vegas. There, he’d fallen to his knees in tears. Begged her to forgive him. Promised that he’d never hurt her again. And she had believed him.

  Sean had coaxed her back that time. Would he try to coax her this time? Or would he—

  “You okay?”

  Hank’s baritone made her blink and finally notice him kneeling beside her. “Huh?”

  His hands cupped her face. Those silver-blue eyes of his burned with concern. “Everything okay?” He leaned closer to her.

  She flinched and leaned away from him.

  He frowned.

  She thought of vodka, and that made her smile. “Hey. Sorry. I’m just … caught off guard. Stupid work thing.”

  He said, “Ah,” not knowing what she did for a living because he’d never asked.

  Her smile widened. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  He peered at her, wary of the sudden switch. Was her cheer real or synthetic? Not knowing that 98 percent of Gray Sykes was synthetic, his face relaxed. “Good morning, beautiful.” Then he leaned in to kiss her.

  And Gray let him. And she let him touch her neck. And she let him caress her brea
sts and tweak her nipples. She let him take her in the solarium, in the sturdiest chair in the world, for all of the 110 and 101 freeways to see. And she played the part of the wanton woman, and the soldier and the vamp came together as the city awakened to the roar of helicopters and the crunch of fender benders.

  Hank had to skip breakfast. “I need to hit the road,” he said, pulling on his blue jeans. “Supply run to Northridge before traffic gets too crazy.”

  Gray’s abdomen hated her for the theatrics out in the solarium. Still, she made a disappointed face—but not so disappointed that he’d change his mind. “You sure?”

  Hank offered a muted smile. “Next time?”

  “At least take a cup of coffee?”

  He accepted her travel mug of Peet’s House Blend and another kiss. He didn’t ask if they’d do this again. He didn’t say “See you later.” They would get to that bridge—that is, if that bridge didn’t get washed out by other things to do and other people to see.

  As she closed the door, alone again, Gray was cool with that committed noncommittal. She had plans anyway, like … walking over to her rattling refrigerator. All she had to do was reach for the freezer door handle and just … One sip. That’s all she needed to smooth herself out. Sex in the solarium had fixed 70 percent of her frayed nerves, and the remainder could be remedied in less than five seconds with a cold drink distilled from 100 percent wheat.

  Bad habits.

  Sean had inspired the drunk in her.

  She did a quick check on ORO for his license plates. No recent sightings of that SUV or sedan, but he could have rented a car. Borrowed a friend’s car. Hired a car service …

  Gray closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. She tugged the door handle, the bottom one, and grabbed a can of LaCroix from the shelf. She popped the tab and guzzled half right there in the kitchen. The tingle of carbonation felt good on her tongue and she poured the rest of the can into the sink, ready to start her day.

  Sober.

  Good habits.

  But she was sick of running, holding her breath, always, always watching her back.

  In the bathroom, she took the antibiotic and a single oxycodone and resolved to visit a doctor on Sunday if the pain continued.

  This time, as she showered, Gray scrubbed her face. Almond-colored makeup ran down her legs and swirled into the drain. She scrubbed behind her ears, because she painted that place, too. Her face felt so light and so clean, and she thanked her ancestors for skin that didn’t flare with pimples, because damn, she’d be a giant zit by now.

  Drying off, she studied her reflection in the steamy mirror. The naked woman standing there … the Skipper, who, once upon a time, had been as small as Mrs. Howell. Her attitude—that had been the biggest thing back then. According to Sean, her attitude had been the cause of chaos, the source of all that screaming and all that hurt. That’s when the drinking had started. That’s when the weight had come. A fat slob. That’s what Sean had called her. That’s what she had also believed … back then.

  She also saw reflected in that mirror … scars, tiny ones, horrific ones, usually spackled and hidden for sixteen of the day’s twenty-four hours. The scar beneath her lip had been made by his car key. The sickle-shaped one on her jawline had come from his fingernail. Each scar had grown larger and more violent, like tornadoes on the Fujita scale. Back then, she had pushed each violation away with “It’s not that bad,” to “It looks worse than it is,” until the blood and the glisten of torn muscle and skin could no longer be ignored or covered with a simple bandage. He’d apologize, then present her with a gift that she readily accepted.

  Yes, Gray knew firsthand about men who could turn charm on and off like a beer tap. Love letters and expensive sea salt caramels one day, spit-flecked lips and bugged eyes two weeks later. And Nick knew that Gray had firsthand knowledge about dangerous men, and he’d still given her this case.

  Was this some sort of test?

  Gray shivered now, not from the cold of being naked.

  No.

  She shivered because Sean had her number then.

  And he had her number now.

  17

  Gray ate scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, chased by two cups of coffee. The oxycodone was working and fuzzy numbness spread across her abdomen. Feeling … right, and dressed now in a pink linen pantsuit (no one ever expected bad shit from a chick wearing pink linen), Gray sat at the breakfast bar and opened her laptop.

  Clarissa had emailed her a list of databases to use as quick-search resources. Gray clicked on PACER, which stored case and docket information from federal, district, and appellate courts across the country.

  PACER gave nineteen results for “Isabel Lincoln” in California alone.

  Gray scanned the results. “And none of them live on Don Lorenzo Drive.”

  She clicked into Google.

  Ian O’Donnell had no criminal record. On his LinkedIn page, past hospital administrators said that he was “dependable,” and an “invaluable member of the team.”

  Still, all of this goodness, light, and education didn’t mean that Ian O’Donnell had never smacked his girlfriend. It simply meant that no one had ever charged or arrested him for doing so. And he was a physician—he probably knew where to hit and how hard to hit to prevent Isabel from bruising.

  Mom Naomi had always pinched the webbing between the toes of Gray’s foster sister—Cherie said that pinching hurt more than hitting. Pinching had never left a long-lasting mark.

  “Ian O’Donnell could be a pincher,” Gray said now.

  Or a bottom-of-the-foot beater.

  Or maybe he liked shoving.

  Maybe he humiliated Isabel instead.

  Broke her favorite things.

  Kept her from seeing friends.

  Wrecked her in places that couldn’t be seen on an X-ray.

  A message from Clarissa.

  Found 702 number. emailing you a profile of the person paying for the phone.

  Isabel’s mother, Rebekah Lawrence. Lived on Fifth Avenue in Inglewood. No social network accounts. One email account.

  Not a lot of information, but at least Gray now had an address to visit.

  Even though there was something sinister and nasty lingering beneath his request to find his girlfriend, Ian O’Donnell expected results by today, and all Gray had was a text message plea to be left alone, sent from someone else’s phone.

  “One last thing.” She dialed Omar’s number again.

  And again the man didn’t answer, and his voice mail box was still full.

  She emailed Clarissa. Could you find anything on this phone number? Thanks! She paused, then added: this one, too. She sent the number possibly belonging to Sean Dixon.

  Get going. She grabbed from the kitchen utility drawer a pair of disposable latex gloves that she used to touch chicken, and then she banged out the door.

  The city was alive now. The sun and the sky were a crisp, ashy blue, and there’d been only one car accident on her drive down Crenshaw Boulevard. More than that, there were no ORO alerts, nor were there Range Rovers and Jaguars in her rearview mirror. Gray’s phone stayed dark—still no texts from Tea, Isabel … or Hank. By now, he should’ve sent a Damn, last night was da bomb text, but he hadn’t. That stung her ego some. Morning-after texts were simple courtesy.

  Even though he left just three hours ago?

  Yes, the Skipper determined, even then.

  18

  As Oleta Adams sang about life being a long, flat road, Gray split her attention between making a right turn off Arbor Vitae onto Fifth Avenue and eyeing any car that followed her. Sean Dixon’s Rise and shine message had kick-started her day of paranoia, and although no ORO alerts had scrolled down her screen, that didn’t mean he hadn’t come to Los Angeles to confront her. See you soon. A threat and a promise, and the day would be long with over-the-shoulder checks. And wondering, How did he get my number?

  Inglewood was home to Rebekah and Joseph Lawren
ce as well as the fabulous Forum, the Los Angeles Chargers, and an under-construction football stadium. For now, it remained an affordable middle-class neighborhood with Toyotas and Hondas in some driveways and beat-up Regals and Eldorados in others. Kids enjoying their summer break tossed footballs or performed wheelies on their bikes. Their parents, dressed in suits, nurse’s scrubs, or bus uniforms, brushed ashes off their cars’ windshields or sipped from travel mugs while gossiping with neighbors. Full steam ahead for the American Dream.

  And there were witnesses—Sean wouldn’t pull something with so many eyes.

  Right?

  Gray craved simpler living, like how she sometimes craved Twyla Tatum’s meatloaf. Another one of Gray’s foster mothers, Mom Twyla had the cheekbones of a gazelle and wore bright fuchsia lipstick that always stained her teeth. She could cook, with meatloaf being her specialty. But then, Gray remembered, that meatloaf had always given her the shits afterward.

  Gray slowed, the closer she got to the middle of the block, and she parked a few feet away from the Lawrences’ driveway.

  A quick glance in the rearview mirror. No Sean and no English luxury cars.

  Rebekah Lawrence was beautiful—that was Gray’s first thought, as the older woman opened the passenger door of a gold Cadillac. A dead ringer for Clair Huxtable, with that feathered hair and those wise eyes. Rebekah Lawrence didn’t deal in nonsense, not wearing that no-nonsense lilac pantsuit. She was the type of woman who could spot a lie coming from a mile away and would not hesitate to drag anyone in her driveway—for truth, justice, and the American Way—for all the neighbors to see.

  Gray nestled her leather binder in the crook of her arm and walked toward the army-green ranch-style home with its brown shingled roof and neat white trim. She smiled.

  Rebekah Lawrence said, “May I help you?” as Gray had opened her mouth to say, “Good morning.” The older woman’s voice was low and slow, the kind that asked you to fill out the form, correctly this time, and to come back prepared, or else she would make you do it again, all day if need be, and I ain’t got nothing but time, sweetheart.