And Now She's Gone(66)

From her place behind the wheel, she couldn’t see the SUV’s plates. Couldn’t see if anyone sat in the driver’s seat. She grabbed her phone and tapped the ORO app to check alerts for Sean’s cars, but the app scrolled … One bar. “Crap.”

She typed, wrong number. it’s obvious you don’t know me.

A picture blinked onto her phone’s screen.

3WXA9L2.



The license plate on Gray’s Camry. The eucalyptus trees that lined Don Lorenzo Drive. Gray asleep behind the steering wheel.

Her eyes zigzagged around the neighborhood.

No one stood in the courtyard, on the sidewalks, or— It’s gone. Not the Range Rover; it was still parked, and now the car looked dark green instead of black. No, the white Tesla that had been parked on the other side of the street was now gone. She hadn’t heard its engine start or its tires crunch against the asphalt.

Was it Sean? Had he hired a private investigator that Nick hadn’t found yet? Was he—the P.I. or her ex-husband—now driving that white Tesla?

Who is this?? Took forever to type. Gray’s fingers had become blocks of ice.

You’ll find out soon.



Gray hit the Phone icon to call the texter.

The phone rang … rang … “The party you have reached is unavailable—”

She tapped End, then, eyes closed, took several breaths. In … Out … In … Out …

And Sunday had started out so good. Sunday had started out so long ago.

Hey, Clarissa, Gray typed, run this phone number please.

Her phone buzzed again, but not with Clarissa’s response.

There was a picture of a butterfly tattoo on a café au lait–colored thigh.

I TOLD U I WAS ALIVE. I need my money!!



Nausea settled over Gray like a heavy, wet blanket, and the world tilted left, then right. That place between Okay and Oh shit was becoming tissue-thin, and she had just enough time to launch herself out of the car and onto the grassy curbside. Hot. She was too hot. Dehydrated. Not drinking enough water. Not— Liquified breakfast exploded from her mouth and onto the grass. Her body shook as she vomited, as her stomach yawed and twisted. She gagged and retched as every ounce of fluid poured out of her, and she steadied herself, elbows on knees, as the convulsions softened.

Gray swiped her mouth and nose, both wet and goopy, with the tail of her silk shirt.

A breeze, such a blessing from God, brushed over her, cooling her down some. You can’t sit here much longer—it’s too damned hot. She stayed in the shade. Pain twisted through her nerves and veins, her body hating her loudly now for the sweating, the drinking, the busted appendix, the anxiety. Hating her now for letting it get beaten, never forgiving her for allowing another to destroy its temple, for not finishing those stupid antibiotics after the surgery. And now her body warned her to open her eyes.

She redialed that mysterious number and held her breath.

The phone rang … rang … This time there was no prompt to leave a message.

“Okay.” Her eyes were open, but that curtain of tears blurred. I’m gonna stop it. I’m gonna stop Sean.

Somehow.





35


Do something.

But on Monday, Gray’s new day of rest, she called in sick to work, then drove to the urgent care center a mile from her apartment.

This clinic kept its warped linoleum floors clean but did nothing to fix the busted neon sign hanging on its eaves.

There, Dr. Nazarian saw nothing wrong with her. “Maybe the incision is infected, since you didn’t finish your medications.” The hundred-year-old physician diagnosed her by only peering at her belly from afar for about a second. Then he prescribed a different antibiotic and more oxycodone before shuffling out of the exam room.

Gray paid for her visit in cash—three hundred dollars—then waited for her drugs at the in-clinic pharmacy. She sat there with near-zero confidence that Dr. Nazarian had properly diagnosed her, but she still held a spark of hope that he had.

At home, she took her first dosages, then climbed into bed.

Do something.

“I’ll get him. Not gonna take it anymore,” she whispered, as she rehydrated with bottles of Gatorade, Popsicles, and glasses of water, gritting her teeth with every burst of nausea, every stomach cramp …

She received one text, from Clarissa, right as she closed her eyes.

Just got off the phone with travel. No “Isabel Lincoln” booked a flight to Belize or anywhere else.

And that phone number you sent yesterday?

Burner. Sorry.

Gray tried to feel something—anger, fear, sadness—but she only felt numb. She couldn’t live like this. She wouldn’t live like this.

So do something.

Stop Sean.

Clarissa’s party in Las Vegas—she’d stop him then.

It would be a trip to remember.





36


The bum check from JCI Insurance Services now sat in Rader Consulting’s safe. It was Tuesday night, and Gray found herself working in the office even as the pain in her navel made her squeeze her eyes so tight that a teardrop crystallized into a diamond and tumbled down her cheek. She pushed away from her desk and waited for the sharp twangs to ebb and for her suddenly hot office to cool. She’d medicated earlier in the day—remembering to take her antibiotic, even—but she needed the heavy stuff now.