The Last Housewife (34)

She released my hand, and I stared at the blocky message written in the same red as her lips: 7 FOX LANE. I could feel Laurel drawing closer, just a whisper ahead.

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice so stern it snapped me to attention. The slippery seduction in her voice, in her eyes—the hook that had reeled me, pulled me inch by inch across the bathroom—was gone. Its sudden absence was like a splash of cold water. “This isn’t a game. If you go to Fox Lane, you can’t change your mind. Do you understand?”

I started to nod, to reassure her, but she gripped my arm. Her nails dug into the skin at my wrist. “If there’s even a little part of you that can live without it…don’t come.”

“I meant what I said.”

“Of course you did.” She let go of my arm, leaving the ghost of her nails still biting me, and strode toward the bathroom door.

“Wait,” I called, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“Do you invite all the girls you meet to Fox Lane?” I forced a sheepish smile. “How many of us are there?”

She mirrored my smile, smooth seduction back in place. “Of course not. Only you.”

That’s when I knew she was lying. “Great,” I said.

She swung open the door.

I couldn’t help myself. “Happy hunting.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. But the unleashed music was too loud, electronic synth pulsing our skin, filling our mouths, and in the wave of it, she slipped away.

***

I barreled across the parking lot, fleeing as quickly as last night, except this time, I was fueled by excitement, not horror. What would I find at 7 Fox Lane? At some point, Laurel had to have bumped into someone at the Sparrow and heard the same speech, right? Granted, I still couldn’t be certain she’d ever found her way here. But say she did come, say she’d been searching for an experience she wasn’t supposed to want, one that should’ve been locked in her past. Eventually, she would’ve met a woman like the redhead in the bathroom, if not the redhead herself.

With Clem dead, there was no one else who would understand why a speech like the woman’s might have been alluring to Laurel. The cops wouldn’t have been able to follow such a gossamer trail. An image of Laurel from my dream flashed back, begging me to find her, then disappearing into the dark hole. That’s where other people would’ve stopped. No one else would have climbed after her into the dark. What if finding out what really happened to Laurel was something only I could do?

“Shay!”

I whipped around to find Jamie pushing open the front door of the Mansion, an incredulous look on his face.

“What were you thinking?” He dropped his voice to a fierce whisper when he drew near. “You went back alone?”

“I had to.”

He threw his hands up. “Never mind that you lied to me. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is?” His eyes tracked over my face. “Did you take the drug again?”

Jamie’s dark hair stuck up off his forehead in the exact place he combed his hand through when he was worried or frustrated. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“The danger was the point.” I resumed walking. “I needed to be vulnerable so people would open up.”

He fell into stride beside me. “After everything you told me last night—”

I handed the valet my ticket and he took off running. Jamie waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. “And then I called you and you weren’t answering, and I came by to bring you food and your car wasn’t at your hotel…” He stopped and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I sound like a maniac, don’t I? Like some overprotective friend or—”

“Cal,” I said, clutching my phone, with its blinking tally of missed calls.

Jamie winced. “I know you’re fully capable. I was just worried. You don’t have a ton of investigative experience. And I thought we were a team.”

“I got a lead,” I said, holding up my hand so Jamie could read.

It was almost funny how quickly his reporter’s instincts kicked in. “An address? From who? What does it mean?”

The rental car raced to a stop, wheels crunching gravel, and the valet hopped out.

“I’ll tell you everything,” I promised, catching the tossed keys. “Back at your hotel.”

When we stepped inside Jamie’s room and clicked the door shut, I saw more evidence of his worry. His room was a mess, his anxiety legible in the open laptop, the papers scattered over the desk, the undone sheets and stray pillows on the floor. His TV was on but muted, turned to the news. On screen, Governor Barry stood behind a podium, smiling at journalists. Underneath, the chyron read, PrismTech headquarters opening in NYC… Stocks skyrocketing… Gov. predicts massive tech-sector job growth.

Jamie stood next to me and surveyed the scene. “Well. I did tell you to steel yourself.”

“I remember.” My phone flashed with a text from Cal: Call me back. I’m getting worried.

I buried it in my purse and tossed that on Jamie’s papers. “I didn’t get a chance to say thanks for letting me crash last night.”

He ran a hand through his hair, bouncing a little on his toes. “I know Motel 6 isn’t what you’re used to these days. Full disclosure, I googled Cal.”