Nice Girls(35)

When lunch came around, I yanked off my headband and sat alone at a table in the break room. I put in my earbuds and scarfed down a hummus wrap.

Out of the corner of my eye, a green polo shirt joined me. I stiffened, but it was only Dwayne. He sat down opposite me. He looked like he hadn’t slept in the past few nights. He seemed flimsy, like he would topple over any second.

“I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Yeah, the holidays get busy as hell around here,” Dwayne said sheepishly. He carried a club sandwich from the store’s deli section.

“How’ve you been?”

“You tell me, Ivy League,” he said, unwrapping his food. “You’re the one who’s been out sick.”

I hadn’t seen Dwayne in a couple of days. It was less than a week since we’d discovered DeMaria Jackson’s arm. But it felt longer—like years had passed. There was too much information to process, too many conversations to keep straight. One of them involved Dwayne.

“Kevin Obermueller says hi.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dwayne asked, straightening up. “Why were you talking to Kevin?”

I swallowed. He stared at me, his eyes flashing.

“I thought he’d know something about the disappearances since he’s in the police force, like updates on Olivia. Maybe the two women are connected.”

“You find out anything useful?” Dwayne asked, shaking his head. “I bet I already know the answer.”

“What did I do?” I whispered.

“I wouldn’t trust anything he says. He’s a pig, Mary. I thought that was fucking obvious.”

“What happened?” I asked. But Dwayne was already climbing out of his seat, leaving the break room.

I was floored. Whatever friendship Kevin and Dwayne had shared hadn’t faded away—it had erupted completely.

At a different table, a man snorted. He was one of the same men who’d seen me talk to Ron.

“Bit of a drama queen, aren’t we?” he asked.



I didn’t see Dwayne for the rest of my shift—I didn’t know if he was busy or if he was avoiding me. It was probably both.

It stung.

I thought Dwayne would have listened. He’d been there at the beach. He’d known Olivia. If there was one person who would have cared about both cases, it was him.

Instead, I had pissed him off.

I was on my own.

In the car, I waited for the heat to turn on. I nearly ducked down as Ron left the store on his skateboard. But he didn’t see me. He was bundled up, speeding into the cold chill.

I had a plan to visit Pho Village, where DeMaria had worked after quitting La Rue. It was supposed to be a simple conversation with Mr. Nguyen. The police might have interviewed him already.

Yet I was stalling in the car.

Mr. Nguyen was my best friend’s father. He’d given me free meals at his restaurant, given me rides with Madison when we’d needed them. At sleepovers, Mr. Nguyen brought snacks or nail polish when he came home from the restaurant. He cared about our education, and he did anything to help us study.

Mr. Nguyen had been good to me—he didn’t deserve to be bothered.

And after what had happened with Dwayne, I didn’t want to upset anyone else.

I looked up Madison’s number on my cell phone.

She could pry without raising any suspicion. Madison might not have liked Olivia back in high school, but she would have felt bad for DeMaria Jackson. She would understand how crucial it was to talk to her father.

I called Madison. Los Angeles was running two hours behind, but she would most likely be out of class or work.

After several rings, she picked up her cell phone.

“Mary?” There was the hum of a crowd from her end.

“Hey, how are you?” I squeaked.

“Hang on a sec. I’ll get somewhere quieter,” she said. A few seconds later, the voices had dulled down completely. “I’m at a networking event right now.”

“That sounds cool.”

“I wish,” she said, sighing. “You know how stressful it is to graduate soon? Everyone’s trying to land a job. Meanwhile I’m just trying to find something that lets me stay in L.A. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” I croaked. I could hear the heavy thud of a door closing in the background, the faint echo of shoe heels against tile. I pictured Madison in full business wear, pacing back and forth in an empty hallway of a glass corporate building.

“And have you looked at the GRE?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“It’s awful. It’s like the SAT all over again, except this time you’ve burnt most of your brain cells in undergrad.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak titter.

There was a pause after that. I could hear Madison’s heels clicking on the other end of the phone. She was tunneling full speed toward graduation, the workforce, then grad school. Only four years ago, we’d been stuck in the same humdrum city. We’d both dreamt of escaping it, even if it meant that one went east and the other went west.

But now our lives had diverged completely from each other, one of us heading up, the other one tumbling down.

“My dad told me you’re back in LL,” said Madison. “Why would you go home for research?”