And Now She's Gone(100)
Burt Polasek tapped … and tapped … “Yep. There’s a Robert Engler at that address. The owner is Isabel’s aunt, Ruby Robertson. She’s receiving Social Security benefits and Engler is her caretaker. He’s receiving benefits as well.”
“Caretaker?”
“She’s blind.”
“I know,” Gray said, “but I’m having a hard time believing that Engler is…” She sighed.
Raindrops the size of melon balls now smacked the car. Thunder rumbled across the sky, but Gray didn’t startle. The rain was melting her anxiety, but it had done nothing for the burning tightrope snagged around her navel. She needed something stronger than ibuprofen, but all she had eaten was a bagel, and she was still working.
And Sean Dixon was still out there somewhere, eyes on her.
Blame Isabel Lincoln—or whoever the hell she was.
“Isabel’s real,” Gray said, nodding. “And not real.”
She was as real as Gray and as not-real as Gray. But then, was Gray “more” real being Natalie Grayson or Natalie Dixon? Was she more “real” being Natalie Kittridge, the girl who’d dissociate and go to that place in her head every time a foster brother or play uncle touched her? Every time Mom Twyla poured just a little vodka into her Kool-Aid? Was she more “real” every time Child Protective Services pried her hands from the leg of a kitchen table in a hovel somewhere in Northern California? Was she more “real” as the married woman with blood pooling in her cupped hand or her blood splattered on chrome or mirrors or car seats or cabinets or staircase bannisters?
Natalie Dixon hadn’t been hit since she’d become Grayson Sykes.
Natalie Kittridge hadn’t suffered from ringworm or yeast infections or an empty belly since becoming Natalie Grayson.
During those few moments in her life—being a member of the Grayson family—she’d laughed and ached, fucked and prayed.
So. Which version of her was more real?
Gray sat in her car at Walnut Hill Cemetery for over an hour, and she still needed to find a flight back to California. The inside of the rental car had cooled from the sudden storm, and as the weather system moved north, dragonflies and butterflies danced over the graves of babies, brave men, and beautiful women. New families dressed in whites, blues, and blacks had come to watch a thousand-plus dollars disappear six feet beneath the earth.
Isabel Lincoln was real. As real as the blue butterfly flitting near Gray’s open window.
And Gray would find her, and make her pay—for stealing money, for stealing the innocence of a little girl named Elyse, for probably killing Tommy Hampton, for possibly murdering Omar Neville, for— Gray’s phone buzzed. A new email.
Your ALL OF ME results are back!
Gray’s clammy hands itched. She’d forgotten that she’d left the purple toothbrush, as well as hair and nail samples, with the DNA diagnostics lab almost two weeks ago.
Person one’s ancestry compilation was 89.7 percent sub-Saharan African, 7.5 percent European, 2.3 percent East Asian. A variant had been detected for macular degeneration, but no variants detected for Alzheimer’s or celiac disease. Person one had 1,102 DNA relatives on All of Me.
She tapped the link to the second report.
Person two was 64.3 percent sub-Saharan African, 31 percent European, and 4.7 percent East Asian. Person two had 766 DNA relatives on All of Me.
This second report must have been Isabel’s; Ian had not thought of his girlfriend as “black” because of that 31 percent European.
Person two had a second cousin, Danielle Sledge, in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, and Alicia Kelly, a first cousin in Oakland, California. There were other DNA relatives, but Alicia Kelly was the only first cousin listed.
Gray called Jennifer.
“Hello, stranger. Clarissa’s still pissed at you.”
“And I’m still So what. Listen.” Gray told her about Isabel Lincoln’s DNA results and the emergence of a first cousin. “So I need an address and phone number for this Alicia chick.”
“Got it.” Jennifer’s fingers clicked the keyboard. “That Dylan guy I met at the club? I ran background on him and guess what? He sells knives. Here you go.” Then she rattled off an address on Seventy-Second Street in Oakland. “And here’s a phone number.” She rattled that off, too.
“Can you look at something else?” Gray asked. “Can you find out if she traveled to Belize as Elyse Miller? Clarissa did a search already on the Isabel Lincoln name.”
“Lemme check and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Jen.”
“You coming home anytime soon?”
“Home is where the heart is.”
“I don’t think Nick will like hearing how much you’re spending.”
“He authorized all of this,” Gray said.
Jennifer snorted. “That’s a lie. I know Nick better than you do, don’t forget that. And I know he’s a tight-ass when it comes to the company Amex, especially after Saturday night’s dinner.”
Gray said, “Hunh.”
“Let me know if you need me to run interference. I have a special touch with him.”
Gray rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know.”
Her stomach growled—she still hadn’t eaten a decent meal today. Breakfast had been a bagel from the hotel’s tiny kitchen. It was raining hard and nonstop by the time she found a small, sketchy diner off Wolf Ridge Road. It was the kind of greasy spoon with greasy windows, old framed photographs, whirling ceiling fans, and “World Famous Fried Chicken.” The waitress, a short, thick black woman wearing squeaky shoes and a name tag that said “Lottie,” led Gray to a booth near the back and handed her a sticky menu.