And Now She's Gone(61)
She wandered from the patio to the kitchen, slow-stepping, taking her time, now that she had permission from Ian O’Donnell to be there. She moved from her spot in the living room over to the staircase. On the fourth step, she stopped and turned her head to the right, to the photograph hanging on the wall.
It was a framed eight-by-ten of attractive women in diverse shades. A freckled redhead, a coil-poufed black girl, a cool blonde, and a chunky Latina. A United Colors of Benetton crew photo taken at a winery. Smiles. Hugs. Glasses filled with zinfandel. Check-box friends who were all beautiful, especially since the near-setting sun was God’s Photoshop filter.
Tea wasn’t in this picture. Tea, with her “Be blessed,” her troll dolls, and her raggedy Altima, wouldn’t have fit in this clique. None of them looked like Noelle, either. Not a dreadlock or a tattoo or a facial piercing in this mix.
“Who are you ladies?” Gray asked. “And why haven’t I talked to any of you?”
By now, at least one of Isabel’s girlfriends would’ve heard that a private investigator had been sniffing around. At least one would have sought out Gray to tell more secrets. I heard … and Did he tell you … over gluten-free cocktails and kale chips.
Something soft, like dust, swirled in Gray’s lungs and made her eyes burn. Was it the picture’s setting? Oak barrels and grapevines, the sun like pinot grigio in the cool, bright morning and like velvet and heavy chardonnay at lunchtime, and finally like rosé as you stumbled back onto the tour bus, filled with vino and enough shots like these to fill a photo album.
She, too, had friends like this, who had mattered to her once upon a time. Zoe, Jay, and Avery had always told her the truth: You’re beautiful. You’re smarter than this. He’ll destroy you. They had stuck by her until she’d stopped returning their calls and had started to avoid those places that had meant so much to her—to them. “Once upon a time,” she whispered.
Gray had a crew now. Sort of. Jennifer and Clarissa, and Zadie, too. Their friendship mattered sometimes—sometimes, it wriggled inside of her. Affection, irritation, and trust.
Like Tea, Isabel wasn’t in this picture, either.
Isabel wasn’t in the picture on the breakfast counter—the Benetton crew on the deck of a catamaran with the sun setting behind them. Nor was she in the picture placed on the coffee table in the living room—the crew wearing flannels and hiking boots, circling a giant sequoia. Nor were they in the picture on the bedroom dresser—the crew perched on the bumper of a gray Jeep, shivering in snow, bundled up in goose down.
Was Isabel intentionally hiding from the camera? Had her confidence been shaken by an underarm bruise that was still a little too green? Or had it been the eggplant-colored abrasions on her cheeks and neck?
Gray, too, had stopped taking pictures after Avery’s birthday party at the MGM. Sean had allowed her to attend, and she’d had a great time. That night, she wore her favorite Betsey Johnson dress—a floral jacquard frock the color of cranberries and soot. After the party, she saw the pictures that had been taken that night and she swore that her aching heart would pop and kill her. She’d had under-eye bags from not sleeping well. The bruises on her biceps had been shaped like amoebas. The cut on her lip had blown through the layer of MAC Film Noir. At least her eyes sparkled with joy instead of with fear and tears. And her smile? Rockets and sunshine.
But bruises and cuts never cared to behave and cared less about hiding.
After seeing that version of herself captured on film, Gray had insisted on holding the camera and taking the pictures. She hadn’t said “Cheese” in seven years.
Had Isabel taken on the role of—
No.
Isabel hadn’t been hit by Ian O’Donnell.
Gray knew that. Isabel Lincoln was a liar.
Hard to do—not believe a woman—especially since Grayson Sykes, formerly known as Natalie Kittridge Grayson Dixon, was that woman.
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
A PERFECT UNION
“Only the best for my Nattie,” Sean had promised her.
And he had kept that promise. Mrs. Dixon now lived in a big house on a cul-de-sac in Summerlin, Nevada. Her own house. A clean house that still smelled of paint and varnish, wood shavings and plastic wrap. No wails from police sirens or car alarms. No more living next to stinking trash or filthy alleys crammed with dead dogs and dying men, as she had in Oakland.
The Spanish-Californian two-story had a silver porch light and a breakfast nook, a landscape of succulents with red flowers that popped from their thorny bodies every three weeks. The sunsets were the purest golds and blues in the universe, and she could see the far-off glow of the Vegas Strip from her bedroom deck.
A dream.
On this night in July, after two years of living as Mrs. Sean Dixon, she wandered Target with a cart of pasta, olives, and popcorn. A bottle of Gray Goose vodka already sat in the back seat of her Jag. It was a night to unwind—Sean had flown to Macao for a gaming convention, and this time, he’d actually gone on his trip and hadn’t pretended to so that he could watch her—like the time he hadn’t flown to Atlantic City and, instead, drove three cars behind her on Simmons Boulevard. At a red light, he had used his key fob to open the rear passenger-side door of her Jaguar and climb into the back seat. His eyes had been hidden by his aviator sunglasses, but their heat burned through her headrest and his hands around her neck had burned—