And Now She's Gone(108)
Where are you?
I need to talk to you ASAP!
Please call!! My car’s broken down and so I can’t drive.
Every message Tea had sent since Saturday night—sixteen—had been similar.
Saturday. Gray had been in Vegas, drinking and hooting. Felt like thirty moons ago.
Gray texted, Just got home. Coming over to you. Don’t let anybody into the house. NO ONE EXCEPT ME! See you soon.
Gray’s apartment was dark, and the light from the living room danced across the couch and carpet. The refrigerator rumbled its usual hello and, as usual, Gray yelped, startled by the sudden booming gruffness made by a simple appliance. Nothing had changed since she’d been gone. The lights, the fridge, the empty vodka bottle in the freezer, the knives, the Mace in the medicine cabinet … same as it ever was.
Gray didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to change clothes. Just go and be done. She slipped the knife and Mace into her back pockets and the gun into her battered Liz Claiborne purse.
Maybe she could now convince Tea that she was being had by a con artist.
Maybe Tea Christopher would finally end her carping for Isabel, once she heard the truth.
The truth, though, was rarely pure, and never simple.
59
Tea’s raggedy green Altima was parked in the driveway of the Christopher house. Every bulb burned bright in that rambling ranch, and television light glowed in between the breaks of the closed living room shutters. Gray rang the doorbell, then slumped against the porch railing. Her head and back ached from fighting a crazy man in a greasy spoon down in Alabama.
Why wasn’t Tea answering the door?
Had she fallen asleep? Had she let Deanna Kelly in and found herself tied up in a bedroom?
On the other side of midnight, surfing the last molecules of Percocet, Gray’s mind couldn’t help but come up with terrifying ends for the con’s biggest mark.
Gray knocked on the door again.
No answer.
She banged on the door.
Barks came from inside the Christopher house.
Tea never mentioned having a dog. Was that— “Kenny G.?” Gray squeezed the door’s brass handle.
Unlocked.
She pushed open the door.
The smell was more than rot; it was more than trash; it was heavier than shit.
“Oh my…” Gray’s stomach lurched, and she covered her mouth with the crook of her elbow to block that smell. It was like … like … She couldn’t figure out what she was smelling.
“Tea,” she shouted, “you here?”
Everybody Loves Raymond played on the television, but no one sat on the white couch.
She scanned the living room.
Fireplace mantel crammed with framed pictures.
Coffee table covered with empty food containers.
Filthy white carpet.
Rotting foot peeking from beneath a green blanket.
“Oh shit.” Gray flailed backwards, eyes no longer seeing.
The dog started barking again.
That foot was as black as night.
Dead—that’s what she was smelling.
Near that foot, beneath the coffee table …
A tortoiseshell stem from a pair of glasses.
A small cylinder of burnished gold.
“A bullet casing,” Gray whispered.
Tea!
But it couldn’t be. She’d just texted Gray less than an hour ago. That foot—and the rest of that person—had been beneath the coffee table for weeks.
Gray swiped her mouth as her stomach rocked, as the liquified fat from this poor soul settled into her nostrils.
The dog was barking, frantic now.
Get the dog and get the fuck out of here.
The barking got louder as she tiptoed down the bright hallway. Gray peeked into the first bedroom she reached. The curtains were drawn, and the stink of dog shit hung on still air. A large dog crate sat in the middle of the room. A big dog with matted chocolate-blond hair pawed at the cage, pawed for release, whined for freedom and to be loved again.
Gray smiled. “Kenny G. Ohmigod, you’re still alive.”
She slipped over to the cage.
The dog hopped, whined, and circled.
A lock hung from the gate latch.
Shit.
“I need to find a key,” Gray cooed. She stuck her hand between the grates to pet the dog. “I’ll be back, okay. You’re a good, good boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“He is the best boy,” a woman’s voice said behind her. “The bestest.”
60
Gray pulled the can of Mace from her back pocket and whirled around.
Tea Christopher stood in the doorway.
“You scared me,” Gray shouted.
Tea said, “Sorry.” She wore that tired lavender tracksuit, and her frizzy bangs looked as dusty as her grungy braids.
“Who is that?” Gray whispered, pointing to the living room. “The foot. Who?”
Tea clenched her hands. Her eyes looked bloodshot behind those thick lenses. “Something’s happened and I … I don’t know where to go. Please, Miss Sykes. I need your help. Kenny G.… he needs you, too.”
Gray held up a hand. “You knew where this dog was. It’s obvious that he’s been here—”
“I can explain everything.” Tea took a step into the room. She smelled sweaty, swampy, like she’d run to Westchester via the Los Angeles River.