And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  He said, “Sorry,” then clicked, and hummed as he clicked. “It’s a frontal shot, but the position of her head doesn’t match her neck. The face is off. The color’s weird—this up here is bright sunlight but this down here … Saturation, curves, levels, all of it. Off.”

  “Could it be two pictures merged into one?” Gray asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Can you unmerge it?”

  He made a noise that meant “Maybe.”

  “Anything else?”

  “So, I looked at the metadata to see where and when this picture was created: July twelfth at eleven twenty-two a.m. in Los Angeles.”

  “Yesterday in Los Angeles? You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  Gray returned to her office. It didn’t take long for her to find Christopher and Hope Walters Lincoln in People Finder. Isabel’s real parents lived off Central Avenue, not far from downtown. Gray typed one name and then the other into the Social Security database—if she was planning to visit someone one last time before heading home, she wanted to be sure that at least one of them still walked God’s green earth.

  Christopher Lincoln had died in October 1987, not long after Isabel’s birth.

  Hope Walters Lincoln died in August 1992, a month after Isabel’s fifth birthday.

  Talk about dead ends.

  She tabbed back over to People Finder for any other relational links.

  Nothing came up—the Lincolns had died before computers captured every sneeze and strand of hair.

  Isabel had attached herself to random people like the Lawrences—she had become an orphan before her sixth birthday. Maybe she, too, had been trapped in the foster system.

  Gray brought the proof of life photo to her computer screen. It had been taken in Los Angeles, a damn big place—503 square miles. If she created this photo in L.A., where would she do it? Gray sat still for several moments, and then one name popped in her head.

  Tea. The communications associate who designed newsletters.

  There were two addresses for Isabel’s best friend—one in Idyllwild, California, and one in Los Angeles—Westchester by its zip code, a suburb not far from the airport and just two miles south of Rader’s headquarters. The Westchester house had been purchased in 1983 by Zachariah and Bobbi Carpenter, and with their deaths two years ago, Tea had inherited the home. Tea’s name was also on the title for the cabin—the schlumpy slug was a member of the landed gentry. Not that it was a fancy cabin with a loft, skylights, and bamboo floors. No. The picture on the website showed a simple A-frame with a redwood deck and a stone fireplace.

  “Idyllwild,” Gray said. “That’s outside of…” Palm Springs. Where Beth thinks Isabel is buried. Gray scribbled the Westchester address onto her pad. Later.

  And then her phone buzzed.

  Are we done now? You never responded.

  It was Isabel again.

  Gray’s mind raced as she texted, I’ve been thinking about what you wrote, about Ian lying and insurance.

  You believe me? I’m so glad.

  This could be Gray’s final chance to communicate with the missing woman. But if Isabel was with Tea, maybe Gray could catch her before she disappeared again. She waited to send her response to Isabel until she had slipped behind the Camry’s steering wheel. Then:

  I have one last question for you.

  The city was slipping into shadow now, and Saturday night traffic was slowing her charge. Gray held her breath, light-headed even as she drove. She whiffed fried chicken and seasoned grease as she sped past Dinah’s and then swerved south onto Sepulveda Boulevard.

  No more questions.

  Ian said that he gave you a lot of money.

  IS THAT WHAT HE TOLD YOU?

  HE’S LYING! DID HE SHOW YOU A SLIP FROM THE BANK OR ARE YOU TAKING HIS WORD?? HE’S MANIPULATING YOU!!

  Gray reached Seventy-Seventh Street and waited as pedestrians crossed the intersection before making a right turn. She then drove west, passing grand houses of a high-end Mayberry with oak tree–lined streets and blood-colored front doors. In the golden, dying sunlight, gnats swarmed over wet grass and around the heads of gardeners.

  GPS told her that she was less than one hundred yards away from her destination. She passed the Christophers’ army-green ranch house and circled the block. She came to a stop three houses up from the Christopher house, neat and proper with rosebushes and brass fixtures. The sounds of this neighborhood reminded Gray of Monterey. Lawn mowers, the crunch of skateboard wheels against asphalt, dogs barking.

  Fuck U I don’t have time for this.

  Isabel’s response.

  A battered green Altima with trolls lining the rear window whipped past the Camry.

  Tea zipped into her driveway but didn’t immediately leave the car.

  Gray texted—but she didn’t text Isabel. Hey Tea! Thanks for your help. I’d like to take you to dinner as a thank you.

  Tea’s head dipped.

  Ellipses filled the screen on Gray’s phone.

  I’m not feeling well, so no thank you.

  Then, Tea climbed out of the Altima.

  Gray texted Isabel. I need to give you the keys you gave Mrs. Tompkins.

  Tea stopped and dropped the phone into her bag, then held a second phone in front of her face. Her fingers flew across the screen as she slowly approached the porch. Text sent, she shoved the key into the door lock and entered the house.

  Gray’s phone buzzed with a message from Isabel’s number.

  Just give the key to Tea. Be blessed.

  32

  Could it have been a coincidence that Tea had just happened to be juggling two phones at the same time? Or had she been responding for Isabel? As Isabel? “Be blessed”—that had always been Tea’s signoff after every text string, not Isabel’s. So for Isabel to say that …

  Because Tea has been doubling as Isabel.

  Sure.

  But why?

  Gray chewed on that as she surveilled Tea Christopher’s home. Nick had called to let her know that he’d landed safely and was back in Los Angeles. Gray sent him a picture of her sitting behind the wheel of the Camry. I’m detectiving right now. He texted:

  I asked a few of my contacts re: Sean. No contracts from him. Still looking. BE CAREFUL.

  Back at the Christophers’ house, Tea stayed in, and the residents of the house where Gray had parked kept peeking out of their windows. With a bladder heavy from the strawberry soda she’d drunk while eating her hot link, Gray was fine with abandoning her watch.

  The city was preparing for bed, but her mind still whirled with questions. She knew, though, that most of those queries would be answered on the other side of midnight.

  Questions like why were there bags of hair and nails in that lockbox? Had those things come from Isabel’s hands and head?

  * * *

  Ian O’Donnell, now on speakerphone, had no clue. “That’s a little strange, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” Gray said, now at her office desk on Sunday morning, eyes on that baggie.

  The office was nearly empty—not even eight o’clock—and so quiet that she could hear the Keurig machine gurgle as it warmed water for a first cup of coffee.

  “And you can’t prove that Tea answered that text as Isabel?” Ian asked.

  “No, but with the timing, and the ‘Be blessed’ thing, I just…” She shook her head. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to call you, since I didn’t send a report last night. One more thing: Do you have a toothbrush that belonged to her?”

  Twenty minutes later, Gray met the cardiologist in the parking lot of her office building.

  He handed her a plastic baggie holding a purple toothbrush. His eyes were bloodshot and the blond whiskers across his jaw threatened a beard if he didn’t shave in the next day. “Doesn’t seem like we’re close to ending this.”

  Gray waggled the baggie. “Hopefully, this brings us closer.” This case was ivy—uncontrollable and tangled—and right then she was a rat without tee
th, unable to bite her way through the dark mess that hid who knew what else.

  She hadn’t heard from Tea that morning—as Tea or as Isabel. What now? Dance in place until the next step presented itself? Or find out whose hair and nails?

  Gray turned into a Culver City office park with its planned grass, planned trees, and bland architecture. Even though she’d eaten breakfast, her stomach gurgled. It was worry—knowing that this case was an iceberg but not knowing what would happen to her once she hit it. Because she was going to hit it.

  Would she survive the impact? Would Ian?

  All of Me specialized in Maury Povich–style scenarios. You are not the father of little DeShawnivon. You are the father of Little Enchantress. The DNA testing service took a few days to provide results for paternity questions, and up to four weeks for more detailed forensic results.

  Rader Consultants was a regular, pay-on-time client, and now Gray needed something in between quick and accurate. She knew that she couldn’t request DNA testing without Isabel’s consent—she’d watched a video on YouTube University that had informed her of that. But there were ways around this stipulation. And so she plucked at the root seven hairs from her own head and slipped them into the bag alongside Isabel’s. Then she tore two nails from her left fingers, wreaking havoc on a perfect manicure. She dumped those in the baggie, too.

  She’d have to sign an informed consent form—and she had a right to sign it, since two of her own fingernail samples were in the baggie alongside two of Isabel’s fingernails.

  Two reports would be generated—the results of her DNA and the results for Isabel’s.

  Hopefully.

  At All of Me, the pictures on the walls showed happy families wearing shorts and flip-flops running on a sunny beach now that All of Me had determined that little Kylie was heir to a 2003 Volkswagen Jetta and a rackful of Starter NFL jerseys.

  “I thought I was the only one working today.” Gray smiled at Dr. Mary Alice Piper.

  The older woman peered at Gray over the top of her silver eyeglass frames. “Do you have a reference sample? Buccal swab, blood card, whole blood to compare against?”

  “Yep,” Gray said, shivering. “Well, kinda. I have this.” She held up the bag with Isabel’s purple toothbrush. “This is almost as good, right? She abandoned it at his house. But her spit’s all over it.” She waggled the toothbrush bag again.

  With a promise from Mary Alice to rush the analysis, Gray stepped out into the crisp July morning. “What next?” she asked the world.

  Firefighters continued to battle the blazes around the Basin. Overnight, they’d contained the two fires closest to the city. That meant Los Angeles no longer had a funhouse mirror kind of a sky—wavy, pearly, a trick of light that made you think you could touch the city’s ceiling. No. This morning’s sky was true blue, with no specks of danger. Imperfect still, just like the city, but the green of L.A.’s feral parrots popped against it, and there was a breeze, and Gray’s eyes didn’t burn, and the creamy yellow linen pants she wore this morning seemed appropriate, now that the world didn’t smell like an ancient Reno casino.

  Refreshed. For once, her mind wasn’t crowded. A single thought had the space to linger and twist without being run over and smashed into the ground by another. And as she drove, she sang, along with Oleta, “I’ve Got a Right,” with those drums and big horns.

  Gray sped east into the sun, notepad on her lap, jotting down things to do for the day—paperwork, inbox. And she’d check off each task, because today the city wasn’t burning down, because she wore yellow linen, and because her car had a full tank of gasoline.

  Ten minutes later, she swerved into her usual parking space on Don Lorenzo Drive, in front of Isabel Lincoln’s condo. Weren’t many cars parked on the street. The breeze rustled the leaves of the eucalyptus and magnolia trees and, somewhere, someone had dumped fertilizer onto a bare lawn. Gray didn’t even mind the smell of crap in the air. It smelled like victory—if not now, then three weeks from now, as new blades of green poked past the shit that had been weighing them down.

  That was her life, and she was way overdue for those victory blades of new grass.

  As she crossed the street, her phone buzzed.

  A message from Ian O’Donnell about his latest credit card statement.

  Came in yesterday’s email but I just opened it now.

  Sephora in San Diego. Target in Phoenix. Soriana in Cancun.

  Did you visit any of these places?

  No of course not.

  Nothing had changed in Isabel’s condo since Gray’s last visit—the ugly couch was still ugly. That pack of Kools had remained unsmoked …

  She wandered from the patio to the kitchen, slow-stepping, taking her time, now that she had permission from Ian O’Donnell to be there. She moved from her spot in the living room over to the staircase. On the fourth step, she stopped and turned her head to the right, to the photograph hanging on the wall.

  It was a framed eight-by-ten of attractive women in diverse shades. A freckled redhead, a coil-poufed black girl, a cool blonde, and a chunky Latina. A United Colors of Benetton crew photo taken at a winery. Smiles. Hugs. Glasses filled with zinfandel. Check-box friends who were all beautiful, especially since the near-setting sun was God’s Photoshop filter.

  Tea wasn’t in this picture. Tea, with her “Be blessed,” her troll dolls, and her raggedy Altima, wouldn’t have fit in this clique. None of them looked like Noelle, either. Not a dreadlock or a tattoo or a facial piercing in this mix.

  “Who are you ladies?” Gray asked. “And why haven’t I talked to any of you?”

  By now, at least one of Isabel’s girlfriends would’ve heard that a private investigator had been sniffing around. At least one would have sought out Gray to tell more secrets. I heard … and Did he tell you … over gluten-free cocktails and kale chips.

  Something soft, like dust, swirled in Gray’s lungs and made her eyes burn. Was it the picture’s setting? Oak barrels and grapevines, the sun like pinot grigio in the cool, bright morning and like velvet and heavy chardonnay at lunchtime, and finally like rosé as you stumbled back onto the tour bus, filled with vino and enough shots like these to fill a photo album.

  She, too, had friends like this, who had mattered to her once upon a time. Zoe, Jay, and Avery had always told her the truth: You’re beautiful. You’re smarter than this. He’ll destroy you. They had stuck by her until she’d stopped returning their calls and had started to avoid those places that had meant so much to her—to them. “Once upon a time,” she whispered.

  Gray had a crew now. Sort of. Jennifer and Clarissa, and Zadie, too. Their friendship mattered sometimes—sometimes, it wriggled inside of her. Affection, irritation, and trust.

  Like Tea, Isabel wasn’t in this picture, either.

  Isabel wasn’t in the picture on the breakfast counter—the Benetton crew on the deck of a catamaran with the sun setting behind them. Nor was she in the picture placed on the coffee table in the living room—the crew wearing flannels and hiking boots, circling a giant sequoia. Nor were they in the picture on the bedroom dresser—the crew perched on the bumper of a gray Jeep, shivering in snow, bundled up in goose down.

  Was Isabel intentionally hiding from the camera? Had her confidence been shaken by an underarm bruise that was still a little too green? Or had it been the eggplant-colored abrasions on her cheeks and neck?

  Gray, too, had stopped taking pictures after Avery’s birthday party at the MGM. Sean had allowed her to attend, and she’d had a great time. That night, she wore her favorite Betsey Johnson dress—a floral jacquard frock the color of cranberries and soot. After the party, she saw the pictures that had been taken that night and she swore that her aching heart would pop and kill her. She’d had under-eye bags from not sleeping well. The bruises on her biceps had been shaped like amoebas. The cut on her lip had blown through the layer of MAC Film Noir. At least her eyes sparkled with joy instead of with fear and tears. And her smile? Rockets
and sunshine.

  But bruises and cuts never cared to behave and cared less about hiding.

  After seeing that version of herself captured on film, Gray had insisted on holding the camera and taking the pictures. She hadn’t said “Cheese” in seven years.

  Had Isabel taken on the role of—

  No.

  Isabel hadn’t been hit by Ian O’Donnell.

  Gray knew that. Isabel Lincoln was a liar.

  Hard to do—not believe a woman—especially since Grayson Sykes, formerly known as Natalie Kittridge Grayson Dixon, was that woman.

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  A PERFECT UNION

  “Only the best for my Nattie,” Sean had promised her.

  And he had kept that promise. Mrs. Dixon now lived in a big house on a cul-de-sac in Summerlin, Nevada. Her own house. A clean house that still smelled of paint and varnish, wood shavings and plastic wrap. No wails from police sirens or car alarms. No more living next to stinking trash or filthy alleys crammed with dead dogs and dying men, as she had in Oakland.

  The Spanish-Californian two-story had a silver porch light and a breakfast nook, a landscape of succulents with red flowers that popped from their thorny bodies every three weeks. The sunsets were the purest golds and blues in the universe, and she could see the far-off glow of the Vegas Strip from her bedroom deck.

  A dream.

  On this night in July, after two years of living as Mrs. Sean Dixon, she wandered Target with a cart of pasta, olives, and popcorn. A bottle of Gray Goose vodka already sat in the back seat of her Jag. It was a night to unwind—Sean had flown to Macao for a gaming convention, and this time, he’d actually gone on his trip and hadn’t pretended to so that he could watch her—like the time he hadn’t flown to Atlantic City and, instead, drove three cars behind her on Simmons Boulevard. At a red light, he had used his key fob to open the rear passenger-side door of her Jaguar and climb into the back seat. His eyes had been hidden by his aviator sunglasses, but their heat burned through her headrest and his hands around her neck had burned—