And Now She's Gone(46)

Gray gasped. “Gorgeous.”

“And the red one for your Chinese wedding?” Jennifer scrutinized the photo, looking for something, anything, to criticize.

Clarissa said, “Still in pins.”

“Oh,” Jennifer said. “I booked our rooms at the Cosmopolitan.”

The scar near Gray’s navel throbbed—either the oxycodone was wearing off or her body was preparing to revolt. Because was she really gonna step foot in that city again?

Clarissa shoved Gray’s leg. “Stop. Don’t do that.”

Gray blinked at her. “Don’t do what?”

“Like, you’re literally clenching your teeth and staring into space. You’re thinking of skipping my weekend, and you can’t do that.” Clarissa’s eyes filled with tears. “C’mon, Gray.”

“Don’t you have ten other girls going?”

“Five. But I, like, want you there, too. Come. On.”

Gray forced herself to smile. “I’ll be there. Cross my heart, hope to die. Time to work.”

With that, the women finished their lunches, then Jennifer and Gray grabbed legal pads as Clarissa grabbed her iPad.

“First of all,” Gray said, “today is this poor woman’s birthday and she’s spending it how? Either running around the world or being dead.”

“Sucks to be her,” Clarissa said.

“Worst birthday ever,” Jennifer said. “Eating gas station hot dogs. I’m talking about me, not this Isabel chick. But that’s another story—”

“For another time, yes.” Gray told them about Rebekah Lawrence (Not the momma) and Kevin Tompkins (Mega perv). She showed them a shot of the note she’d taken from Isabel’s kitchen counter (BZE), the hair and nail bag (Ew!), and pictures of the pictures of a battered Isabel Lincoln (Shit). There was the envelope from JCI Insurance Services that Gray hadn’t opened—a federal crime to open other people’s mail—and the possibly fictional suicide attempt (Tylenol? Lightweight). Why? And there was this sketchy picture of the missing woman in Hawaii, but not a picture of the missing Labradoodle. Where’s Kenny G.? She didn’t tell them about Isabel’s request to be disappeared—not everyone at Rader Consulting knew about that off-menu item.

“But I don’t need you to tell me the whys and how-comes,” Gray said to Clarissa. “I need you to get me any data that will help lead me there.”

“Basically, do Gray’s job for her,” Jennifer snarked, eyebrow cocked.

Gray said, “Isn’t data mining her job?”

“I don’t mind,” Clarissa said, shaking her head at Gray, then nodding at Jennifer.

Gray held up her hand. “No. Wait. I’m sorry. If I’m being—”

“It’s okay,” Clarissa said.

Jennifer smirked. “Poor girl. She’ll say anything to get you to Vegas.”

Gray frowned. “Seriously—”

“No.” Clarissa pointed at Jennifer. “Stop. Now. For real.” To Gray, she smiled. “I’ll find as much information as I can. No problem. I swear. Oh—Omar Neville. I got an address. He lives close. I’ll email it to you. And that second number you asked about…”

Sean’s number. “Uh-huh?”

“Came from a burner phone. Sorry.”

“Thanks, Clarissa,” Gray said. “And I won’t flake. I’m going, okay?” Shit. Crap. No.

Back in her office, the red voice mail light on her desk phone glowed. “Hi, Gray. It’s Liz Jankowski, over in H.R. I have a quick question about your—”

Gray hit seven—message deleted.

What was she gonna do about Isabel Lincoln’s proof of life picture?

Gray dialed Sanjay’s extension. The resident graphic designer didn’t pick up, so she left a message asking that he call her back as soon as possible. Then she stored Kevin Tompkins’s discarded Target bag and Isabel’s baggie of hair in a banker’s box she’d labeled “I.L. stuff.” She kept Isabel’s keys in her purse and wondered about the lock belonging to that third key.

“Omar Neville…” According to Google Maps, he lived in Leimert Park. Not far. She’d stop by his apartment on her way home.

Gray logged into another people-finding database to do some more digging.

“Natalie Dixon” now lived in Chicago, somewhere on the East Side. She’d donated three hundred dollars to a food bank and had been thanked in the charity’s annual report.

She was also registered at Bed Bath & Beyond for a December 7 wedding.

She’d just been buried alongside her dear husband, Raymond, of fifty years.

A “Natalie Dixon” also lived in thirty cities throughout California—and none of them lived in downtown Los Angeles or worked in Playa Vista.

She was still a ghost—digitally. So how had Sean found her number?

Her office was cool, and so quiet that the rattle of Vicodin in the emergency vial she kept in her desk drawer startled her. She shoved one capsule into her mouth and chased it with the rest of her LaCroix. Soon the drug would yank her, and the wet ache near her navel would dull and the world would be as good as it could be until the drug wore off.

“Soon” came, and her cheeks felt like a wool skirt with a silk lining. She was ready to feel nothing, just that fuzzy smoothness, and she closed her eyes and ignored the busy quiet of Rader Consulting. Her breath slowed and soon her abdomen numbed, and she heard herself softly snoring. For a perfect moment, she existed in a perfect, peaceful place.