The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(12)

“You want to sit?” Graham said, motioning to one of the round tables.

“Sure,” I said—per my earlier rationalization.

We made our way through the crowd to one of the white-linen-draped tables and banquet chairs. Graham set down his plate and asked, “You want a glass of wine or a beer?”

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“Don’t drink, don’t smoke. What do you do?” he sang. When I didn’t respond he said, “Adam Ant. ‘Goody Two Shoes.’ It’s a song.”

“Oh,” I said. Then, for no particular reason, I added, “Wine. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

That’s how the evening went, with me saying things I’d never said before, especially after I’d had a second glass of wine. Like when Graham said, “Do you want to get out of here?” And I said, “Sure.” Or later when we went to a bar and he said, “Do you want a drink?” and I said, “Sure,” again. And when he drove me home in his Porsche and parked and said, “Are you going to invite me up for coffee?” and I said, “Do you drink coffee?” and Graham said, “No,” and I said, “Okay.”

And just like that, I slept with him. The very first night! I know, pretty sleazy, right? Maybe it was the wine and the cocktails, or maybe it was reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Honestly, I thought I’d never hear from the guy again, but then he sent me an e-mail asking me to go out. I debated it for a day. I did not show it to Brenda. I did, however, show it to my friend Devin Chambers. Devin started at the company about the same time I did, though she worked for another adjuster. I told her about my night with Graham, and she was like, “What? No fucking way? You slept with him? Holy shit!”

Did I mention that Devin swears like a sailor with Tourette’s? Anyway, she thought I should go out with Graham again, so I did.

So I guess I have Devin to thank for me standing in the marbled entry of the Multnomah County Courthouse, waiting for Graham. I have to admit I am a bit nervous. I mean, we’ve only been dating a few months. I haven’t even met his family. He says I should thank him. His father is some CEO in New York, which Graham says is why he lives in Portland, as far away as possible without leaving the lower forty-eight states. His mother, he says, mostly stays in their Manhattan apartment, drinking. So, in a sense, Graham doesn’t have any family either, and in that we have a common bond. We’re orphans, and if that isn’t a reason to get married, then I don’t know what is (sarcasm, again).

I felt awkward just standing there in a white dress. I was sure everyone walking past was giving me pitying looks, certain I was about to be stood up. Truth was, I had the same thought. Sad, I know, but I never had figured out why Graham wanted to marry me—my counselor said I have a self-esteem issue. Really? And I would have thought every girl who watched her parents die and was molested by her uncle would be brimming with confidence!

Graham, however, seems to think we have a lot in common, but that’s because I pretty much say yes to everything he wants to do. I guess I’m afraid that if I said no, well, it would be like my boss saying if I didn’t go to the party she’d fire me. I really wasn’t certain what might happen.

“Hey.” I turned at the sound of his voice, relieved to see him hurrying across the rotunda’s terrazzo tile floor, slightly out of breath when he reached me. “Sorry I’m late. Something came up at work.”

“I thought you took the afternoon off,” I said.

“I’d hoped to, but something came up. Small fire. Nothing big. So you ready to do this thing?”

Do this thing?

“Sure,” I said, though I was pretty sure I smelled the faint odor of alcohol on his breath when he leaned forward to kiss me.





CHAPTER 5


Tracy called Faz after leaving Dr. Wu’s office. She provided him the name Lynn Cora Hoff, her date of birth and Social Security number, and asked that Faz run her through the National and Washington State Crime Information Centers as well as the Department of Licensing. She and Kins drove to the address Lynn Hoff had provided Dr. Wu, a motel in an industrial area of the city. Tracy noted from a billboard that you could rent a room for $22 a night or $120 a week. According to the woman working in the office, Lynn Hoff had rented the room for the month, paying cash.

“Was it unusual for a guest to stay that long?”

“It doesn’t happen that often, but it happens—you know, people in between leases or relocating from out of state, stuff like that,” the woman said.

The rental agreement consisted of boilerplate language. It asked Hoff to write down the make and model of her car and license plate number. Hoff had drawn lines through those spaces.

“What kind of tenant was she?” Tracy asked.

“No problems with her.” The woman led them from the office to the back of the building. She was dressed for the weather in shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. Tracy envied her. The heat coming off the asphalt permeated through the soles of her shoes. It now seemed all but a certainty Seattle would break the June record for the number of days eclipsing ninety degrees. All across the state, record highs were being set, with fires raging out of control in eastern Washington. For the first time in her life, Tracy heard people using the word “drought”—which seemed incomprehensible coming out of the mouths of Seattleites.