And Now She's Gone(26)

Gray’s insides were pinballing. Wanted her dead? “He told me that she’s left before.”

“And he’d always sweet talk her into coming back. And when the sweet talk failed, he threatened her into coming back.”

“How did he threaten her?” Gray fought back tears. Maybe Nick had been right. Maybe it was too soon for her to work a case like this.

“He said…” Tea traced her finger through the lettuce and cheese debris on the table. She was overheating in that sweater set and perspiration trickled down her temple. “He said that he’d hurt somebody she loved. At first she didn’t believe him, but then he poisoned her cat.”

Gray’s lungs tightened. Ian had denied any involvement in Morris’s death. “How?”

“The vet found rat poison in Morris’s system. Isabel had no choice but to euthanize him.”

“How do you know that Ian … I mean, cats always get into shit. Morris could’ve found…” She stopped speaking, since Tea kept shaking her head. “Okay, so he maybe killed the cat.”

“We know that he killed the cat.”

Gray sipped the margarita, not really tasting it. A good thing, since she hated tequila. She loved martinis—dirty, pink, Gibsons, and vespers. But she’d abandoned that life, and those cocktails.

“Listen, Tea. I understand everything you’ve just told me, and I’m so sorry that Isabel’s in this situation. But I can’t just tell Ian that she’s fine, that Kenny G. is fine, and that he should just move on. I’m gonna need proof.”

Tea squinted at Gray. “What kind of proof?”

“Specifically, a picture of Isabel holding tomorrow’s newspaper, a picture of her left thigh, a handwritten statement that says she’s okay, along with answers to three security questions. And I need Kenny G. to be in the newspaper picture.”

On a napkin, Gray jotted down these instructions, along with her email address. “Quick question: Did you give Isabel my phone number?”

Tea folded the napkin into a small square. “I did. I thought she should know that he was trying to find her, and that he hired you.”

The Corona sign threw weak gold and blue light over the empty plates. This case reminded Gray of the shredded cheese and lettuce scattered all around the table. She wanted to ask Tea about the black truck and the early-morning ride—and she wanted to ask about Omar, especially—but her gut told her to wait.

“So, do you know where she is?” Gray asked instead. “Does she need anything? Money or a plane ticket…”

Tea shook her head. “Everything about Ian is a lie. He didn’t love her. He was never in love with her. And if she ever comes back, she’s gonna tell the California Medical Board everything, about every punch and kick she took from him. They’re gonna revoke his license.”

“The police—”

“We never called the police. Calling the police would’ve made Ian angrier.”

In some cases, restraining orders fed the beast instead of tamed it. Sometimes, restraining orders offered a sense of false security when it was only a paper shield. As though an asshole who had shoved, kicked, beaten, and strangled his lover would follow and respect the law. And then there was this: violating a restraining order was a misdemeanor. A bug bite, not even from a Zika-infested mosquito. What rhinoceros was scared of a common mosquito?

Isabel not going to the law for protection?

Gray understood that more than anything.

“Isabel’s fine,” Tea said. “She has money, she has a gun, and she has … me.”

Isabel had a gun?

Shit.

Nick thought Ian O’Donnell didn’t seem violent enough to warrant a weapon, but Gray also knew better than that. They never seemed violent enough … until it was too late and their knuckles were already dripping with blood.





EIGHT YEARS AGO


UNFORGETTABLE

It was their first anniversary, and for the third time that night, Sean danced with Georgina, the Brit with bad bangs who was over corporate accounts at SD Promotions. And now Mrs. Dixon knew that she’d have to say something, and she knew that he’d glare at her like he’d glared at her on the day after her birthday, just two weeks before—the birthday he’d forgotten.

An argument on their first freaking anniversary.

Back in their suite, Mrs. Dixon set on the bed a bucket of quarters that she’d won from playing slots. She’d played alone. Her nerves were tight by then, snake-in-the-grass tight, monster-in-the-closet tight. “Was I supposed to tell him, No, thanks, I’ll pass on taking two hundred fifty dollars?” she finally asked her husband. “What should I have done?”

Sean didn’t respond. He cracked open a can of Coke from the bar, then poured that and two mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s into a glass. He swirled the mixture with his pinkie and kept his hard eyes on the window overlooking the Strip.

“Sean,” Mrs. Dixon pleaded, “please answer me and stop pouting.” Her resolve to be “right” had folded over and it was hard for her to breathe and plead at the same time.

But she knew now: even though this moment hadn’t been Indecent Proposal, that’s exactly what she should have done. No one had offered Sean a million dollars—and she never would have slept with the Texan anyway. Still, she apologized. “I’ll never do it again, okay? Sean. It was harmless fun, I would’ve—”