The Disappearing Act(86)

I know which option I’d prefer. Every instinct in my body is telling me to go home, right now. There is no way I can meet Kathryn Mayer or the producers looking like this. And I have no intention of handing myself in at a police station. I have the perfect excuse to leave LA today. A bruised face and body. A damaged voice. A trauma.

I fire up my laptop and wander into the living room with it. Outside the sun hangs low and sickly over the smog of the city and yet somehow, it’s still beautiful.

My phone pings. A message from Nick, oblivious to all that has passed, thanking me for a wonderful night last night and asking if I want to grab a coffee later.

I feel a deep twist of shame. I was so quick to assume the absolute worst of Nick on that dusty hillside last night—that he could have done such terrible things—when the truth is he might be the kindest man I’ve ever met. I have no idea what to say to him right now, though, so I leave the message unanswered. I remind myself that I still have something of his—but I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

I set about searching for a flight back to London. I’m leaving, there’s no two ways about it and I’m not waiting for permission. I find a possible red-eye and call the airline and book a ticket for 9:05 tonight.

I check the oven clock in the kitchen. I need to be at the airport by 7:05 to check in.

That doesn’t give me much time to do what I need to do.

I dash back into the bedroom, haul my suitcase onto the bed, and stuff everything I own into it. I tip everything from the bathroom unceremoniously into the mess of the suitcase and close it up. I shove my laptop, passport, headphones, and book into my handbag and drag everything out into the hall.

I sweep the rest of the apartment for left items, scoop the remaining contents of the fridge into the bin, and place the Audi keys and welcome pack into a cloth bag to leave at reception. Ready to go, I pull out my phone and dial.

Cynthia picks up after two rings. It’s the middle of the night back in London. Her voice is thick with sleep but her tone is suddenly alert. Calls in the dead of night are rarely a good thing.

“Cynthia, hi. It’s Mia,” I croak. It’s the first time I’ve heard my voice out loud since last night and it almost sounds like a joke, a crank call. I try to gently clear my throat before continuing but it makes no difference to my voice. “Listen, don’t worry, I’m fine but I had a car accident last night.” I hear her shift up in bed on the other end of the line.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” I answer but the sound of my own voice loosens something inside me and the intensity of everything that’s happened over the last few days hits me. I try to stop it but my voice is emotional as I speak. “I’m fine. I’m just a bit banged up and not exactly audition-ready but…I’m alive,” I answer, relief heavy in my voice.

“And the other guy?” she asks. I know she means the other car in the crash but I think of Marla nonetheless. I force myself back to my story. “I rear-ended a garbage truck,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s my own flat delivery, my relief at speaking to a friendly voice, or the bizarre facts of the situation but I let out a laugh and Cynthia does too. I welcome the second of levity it affords me.

“My face is a mess and as you can hear, I won’t be bagging any musicals in the next couple of months but otherwise I think I’ll be okay.”

“Thank God!” She sighs heavily.

“Listen, I changed my flight, I’m flying back tonight.” I pause, considering how best to phrase this. “I need to go home, Cynth.”

“Of course,” she coos. “I totally understand. I’ll sort everything out with everyone over there. Just leave the apartment keys there. I’ll deal with it all.”

“The car’s—” I begin.

She cuts me off. “Don’t worry about the car, what matters is you’re safe, besides that’s what insurance is for. I’ll deal with it. We’ll sort it all out once you’re back in London. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. And Kathryn, the screening, will that be okay?”

Cynthia pauses down the line; I hear her duvet shift. “Listen…you’ve been involved in a car crash. I mean, come on. It’s perfectly understandable that you’d want to fly home, see your own doctor, be around your family. I can’t imagine it being a problem for the studio but to be honest, if it is then…well…fuck ’em, frankly.”

I feel my eyes prickle warm and sharp. I can’t express the affection I have for Cynthia right now. A smile breaks across my face in spite of everything that’s happened in the last few days. “Thanks, Cynth.”

I’m going home.



* * *



—

My bags lie waiting by the door as I fish the unused Sig from last night’s jacket. I wipe it down carefully, removing the hillside dust as well as my fingerprints. I remove the bullet, wipe it clean, and carefully reinsert it, wrapping the whole gun tightly in a clean dishcloth before slipping the snug package back into my handbag. I ball up the jacket, double-bag it, and deposit it in the trash. From what I can see, it doesn’t have any blood on it, but it’s sweaty and dusty and frankly I’d rather never see it again.

I scan the empty apartment. I’m ready. I tap out a message to Nick.