And Now She's Gone(62)

“Nat Grayson?”

Stones and whiskey. She turned to that familiar voice.

He wore all black, and his hair was slicked back. He looked more Asian tonight, like a member of the yakuza. He was bigger than before, with muscles like a racehorse.

“Dom!” Mrs. Dixon’s spirit shimmied, seeing him in the snacks aisle. She ran up to him and threw herself into his arms. “What are you doing here? Really—what are you doing here, off the Strip, in a freaking Target?”

He squeezed her tight, kissed her neck and cheeks. “Visited a client and now I’m buying provisions for tonight.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Prophylactics?”

He tapped her nose stud. “No love without the glove.”

She gave him a playful shove. “You still a G-man?” She could still feel the heat of his body on her palms and wanted to wrap her body with her hands.

Dominick Rader shook his head. “Last year, I got shot in the shoulder. Right here.” He tapped the space near the end of his collarbone. “Damn near collapsed a lung, but…” He grinned, shrugged. “Here I am.”

“Glad you pulled through.”

“Still married?” His smile combined dismay and amusement, She can’t be this stupid with Oh my, I think she is.

She said, “Yeah,” and then, “So, if you’re not in the Bureau, what are you doing all day?”

“I’m back home in L.A. Started a consulting firm. Locates, surveillance, background checks, that kind of thing. What are you doing all day? Last time I saw you, you were working at the museum in Oakland, right?”

“Ha. Yeah. Well … I’m living here.”

Ducking. Dodging. Squeezing into a protective ball.

Sean had hit her five times and shoved her more times than that. He’d eaten most of the food on her plate, but instead of her losing ten pounds, stress, drinking, and popping pain pills had made her gain twenty. Her dream house had turned into a prison and she now lay awake almost every night, eyes on the ceiling, heart banging in her chest, more scared than she’d been at Mom Twyla’s crummy duplex with the knocking pipes, the stinking alleys, and the gnawing rats.

She said, “I’m … just living. Helping out with my husband’s business sometimes.” And saving every coin and dollar I can find. Her mad money, jump-started by that Texan’s $250 blackjack score, had grown to almost a grand. And those secret rent checks from her house in Monterey—twenty-five hundred dollars a month over the last seven years—had added up.

Dominick’s eyes darkened. “You getting over the flu or something?”

“Huh? No. I’m fine.”

His gaze kept pecking over her and what she now saw as her normal. Like that extra weight around her stomach and hips. Deep, dark pockets beneath her eyes. Great hair, though. Sean loved her long hair.

“You look incredible.” She poked him in the abdomen. “But then you’ve always been, dare I say, hot. And when you wore that badge around your neck?” She flapped at her face and pretended to get the vapors.

“Didn’t think you noticed.”

“I may be stupid, but I’m not blind.”

He kissed her left hand, then peered at her rings. “Can’t believe you’re married.”

“Two years now.”

“That long?”

Her skin tingled even as she said, “Yeah. That long.”

“Happily?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters.”

She pulled her hands back, then tucked the hand heavy with diamonds into her hoodie pocket. “It’s fine. We’re okay. I’m just … getting used to being married.” Her head ached with that lie, told so many times now, mostly to herself. She swallowed the lie again and it pinched at her throat and it rappelled down her esophagus, glowing like the poison it was. Yes, her lies were going to kill her one day.

She and Dominick Rader didn’t speak as moms passed them, pushing toddlers in carts and strollers. As couples wandered hand in hand down the snack aisle, snatching bags of Tostitos and Doritos off shelves. As normal people did normal things.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said. “Dinner, if you have the time.”

“I’m not dressed for that.”

“I can change. I have jeans and a T-shirt—”

“That’s okay.”

“It’s still early. I wanna catch up. See what you’ve been doing all this time. We can do that over a good meal. I know a guy.”

She laughed. “My tale would only stretch through appetizers.” She did nothing all day. Sean required that of her. Look pretty, talk pretty, only be interesting if his business clients required interesting conversation. Wit and intelligence were fetishes in this town. More to be ashamed of than sucking noses and fucking chickens. Which, she’d learned, were things.

Dominick tried to smile. “Fine. Let’s grab a bag of Target popcorn, sit on the hood of your car, and just talk.”

“Dom … Shit.”

A large, bald white dude who worked security at one of Sean’s clubs was carrying a basket filled with a roll of paper towels and a liter of Squirt. His eyes had shifted to the shelf in front of him—vacuum cleaners—but slid back to her once he thought she’d looked away. Mr. Hook, that’s what they called him. Because of his hook head. He’d followed her once before, and later that night Sean had made her see colors.