And Now She's Gone(32)

Hank stirred but kept his arm across her chest, fee-fi-fo-fum. He stilled, then sank back into slumber.

Gray thumbprinted her way into Messages.

Rise and shine babe!



“Who is this?” she whispered.

The text message had been sent to the “Dating” phone number.

It wasn’t Isabel Lincoln. Wasn’t Ian O’Donnell. Wasn’t anyone associated with the case. Not Nick, either. Not on this line.

A new text message slid on top of the first text message.

Been thinking about you all morning. I think about you every day.



And then, a picture.

Somewhere in the universe, her bridal portrait sat on a dining room table. That day, she’d worn a five-thousand-dollar white gown like Grace Kelly’s high-necked, long-sleeved, rose-pointed dress. Also on that dining room table, beside her bridal portrait: a silver-slide nine-millimeter SIG Sauer.

That dress was rotting somewhere in a Clark County dump—Sean had poured a bottle of red wine over it during one of their arguments. He hadn’t hit her that time, just destroyed the gown, something he claimed was his anyway, since he’d paid for it.

As for the SIG … Sean had pointed that gun at her the first time she told him that she was leaving. He had simply aimed it at her. His finger was nowhere near the trigger, but it didn’t have to be. The menace of that weapon and its hard beauty had cowed her into staying that night and 365 nights after that.

And now, ice cracked cold across Gray’s face. Her skin and muscles hurt. That picture had exploded something deep inside of her. Gripping the phone, she inched from beneath Hank’s arm, pulled on her robe, then crept to the living room. She tiptoed out to the solarium. Out in the world, there were cars, cars, cars down there and helicopters buzzing high, high, high in the sky, ready to report traffic on the tens.

She stared at the cars and thought about her and Nick’s drive into Los Angeles on the 10 westbound, a transcontinental highway that started in Jacksonville, Florida, and ended in Santa Monica, California. She hadn’t come from as far as Florida, but she had been tired and frightened and had resolved to get it right, to smile, laugh, and talk, and to never flinch if someone raised his hand to brush hair from her face or to caress her cheek. She came to Los Angeles to live without fear. Now, here she was, in her haven in the heavens. Tired but not frightened. Flinching sometimes, but not all the time. Sleeping most nights without waking in a sweat.

Progress.

The phone buzzed again.

See you soon



Gray clicked into the Burner app and blocked that number.

See you soon?

How?

Was this a joke? Was this a threat?

She needed a pull from that frosty bottle of Ketel One. Years ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated to have a drink. Now, though …

Hank found Gray sitting out in the solarium. He had pulled on his boxers, and they had tent-poled in one place in particular—he wanted more of her. But most of Gray had shriveled into hard pellets that needed more than an erect penis to soften. The kisses he left on her shoulder and neck were not working—she kept her hands clutching her elbows.

How did Sean get my phone number?

Had she mistakenly written her number on some public-facing document? Had it somehow been linked to the phone she’d used back then, back when she’d worn his last name? Who had he paid to find her? What database had he used to search for her? When was the last time she’d done a background check on herself?

Because none of this was possible. None of this was good.

Sean didn’t even know her anymore.

If he found her, what would he do? Once, during the second year of their marriage, she’d left him. Six hours had passed before he’d found her at their time-share on Lake Las Vegas. There, he’d fallen to his knees in tears. Begged her to forgive him. Promised that he’d never hurt her again. And she had believed him.

Sean had coaxed her back that time. Would he try to coax her this time? Or would he—

“You okay?”

Hank’s baritone made her blink and finally notice him kneeling beside her. “Huh?”

His hands cupped her face. Those silver-blue eyes of his burned with concern. “Everything okay?” He leaned closer to her.

She flinched and leaned away from him.

He frowned.

She thought of vodka, and that made her smile. “Hey. Sorry. I’m just … caught off guard. Stupid work thing.”

He said, “Ah,” not knowing what she did for a living because he’d never asked.

Her smile widened. “Good morning, sunshine.”

He peered at her, wary of the sudden switch. Was her cheer real or synthetic? Not knowing that 98 percent of Gray Sykes was synthetic, his face relaxed. “Good morning, beautiful.” Then he leaned in to kiss her.

And Gray let him. And she let him touch her neck. And she let him caress her breasts and tweak her nipples. She let him take her in the solarium, in the sturdiest chair in the world, for all of the 110 and 101 freeways to see. And she played the part of the wanton woman, and the soldier and the vamp came together as the city awakened to the roar of helicopters and the crunch of fender benders.

Hank had to skip breakfast. “I need to hit the road,” he said, pulling on his blue jeans. “Supply run to Northridge before traffic gets too crazy.”