And Now She's Gone(33)

Gray’s abdomen hated her for the theatrics out in the solarium. Still, she made a disappointed face—but not so disappointed that he’d change his mind. “You sure?”

Hank offered a muted smile. “Next time?”

“At least take a cup of coffee?”

He accepted her travel mug of Peet’s House Blend and another kiss. He didn’t ask if they’d do this again. He didn’t say “See you later.” They would get to that bridge—that is, if that bridge didn’t get washed out by other things to do and other people to see.

As she closed the door, alone again, Gray was cool with that committed noncommittal. She had plans anyway, like … walking over to her rattling refrigerator. All she had to do was reach for the freezer door handle and just … One sip. That’s all she needed to smooth herself out. Sex in the solarium had fixed 70 percent of her frayed nerves, and the remainder could be remedied in less than five seconds with a cold drink distilled from 100 percent wheat.

Bad habits.

Sean had inspired the drunk in her.

She did a quick check on ORO for his license plates. No recent sightings of that SUV or sedan, but he could have rented a car. Borrowed a friend’s car. Hired a car service …

Gray closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. She tugged the door handle, the bottom one, and grabbed a can of LaCroix from the shelf. She popped the tab and guzzled half right there in the kitchen. The tingle of carbonation felt good on her tongue and she poured the rest of the can into the sink, ready to start her day.

Sober.

Good habits.

But she was sick of running, holding her breath, always, always watching her back.

In the bathroom, she took the antibiotic and a single oxycodone and resolved to visit a doctor on Sunday if the pain continued.

This time, as she showered, Gray scrubbed her face. Almond-colored makeup ran down her legs and swirled into the drain. She scrubbed behind her ears, because she painted that place, too. Her face felt so light and so clean, and she thanked her ancestors for skin that didn’t flare with pimples, because damn, she’d be a giant zit by now.

Drying off, she studied her reflection in the steamy mirror. The naked woman standing there … the Skipper, who, once upon a time, had been as small as Mrs. Howell. Her attitude—that had been the biggest thing back then. According to Sean, her attitude had been the cause of chaos, the source of all that screaming and all that hurt. That’s when the drinking had started. That’s when the weight had come. A fat slob. That’s what Sean had called her. That’s what she had also believed … back then.

She also saw reflected in that mirror … scars, tiny ones, horrific ones, usually spackled and hidden for sixteen of the day’s twenty-four hours. The scar beneath her lip had been made by his car key. The sickle-shaped one on her jawline had come from his fingernail. Each scar had grown larger and more violent, like tornadoes on the Fujita scale. Back then, she had pushed each violation away with “It’s not that bad,” to “It looks worse than it is,” until the blood and the glisten of torn muscle and skin could no longer be ignored or covered with a simple bandage. He’d apologize, then present her with a gift that she readily accepted.

Yes, Gray knew firsthand about men who could turn charm on and off like a beer tap. Love letters and expensive sea salt caramels one day, spit-flecked lips and bugged eyes two weeks later. And Nick knew that Gray had firsthand knowledge about dangerous men, and he’d still given her this case.

Was this some sort of test?

Gray shivered now, not from the cold of being naked.

No.

She shivered because Sean had her number then.

And he had her number now.





17


Gray ate scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, chased by two cups of coffee. The oxycodone was working and fuzzy numbness spread across her abdomen. Feeling … right, and dressed now in a pink linen pantsuit (no one ever expected bad shit from a chick wearing pink linen), Gray sat at the breakfast bar and opened her laptop.

Clarissa had emailed her a list of databases to use as quick-search resources. Gray clicked on PACER, which stored case and docket information from federal, district, and appellate courts across the country.

PACER gave nineteen results for “Isabel Lincoln” in California alone.

Gray scanned the results. “And none of them live on Don Lorenzo Drive.”

She clicked into Google.

Ian O’Donnell had no criminal record. On his LinkedIn page, past hospital administrators said that he was “dependable,” and an “invaluable member of the team.”

Still, all of this goodness, light, and education didn’t mean that Ian O’Donnell had never smacked his girlfriend. It simply meant that no one had ever charged or arrested him for doing so. And he was a physician—he probably knew where to hit and how hard to hit to prevent Isabel from bruising.

Mom Naomi had always pinched the webbing between the toes of Gray’s foster sister—Cherie said that pinching hurt more than hitting. Pinching had never left a long-lasting mark.

“Ian O’Donnell could be a pincher,” Gray said now.

Or a bottom-of-the-foot beater.

Or maybe he liked shoving.

Maybe he humiliated Isabel instead.

Broke her favorite things.

Kept her from seeing friends.