And Now She's Gone(7)

Eventually, she had wised up.

And maybe so had Isabel Lincoln.

“We used to see each other for lunch every day,” Ian O’Donnell said now. “Before everything went wrong.”

“She works close then?” Gray asked.

“At the Alumni Center up on the main campus. She’s an alum. Class of 2009. Not me. I went to Brown for undergrad, then Harvard Med, and now I’m here. Weather’s better in L.A. than Boston. Girls are prettier, too.” He chuckled. “Just kidding. Not kidding.”

Gray laughed for him.

She didn’t like Dr. Ian O’Donnell, and she hoped that Isabel had left a scorching review of him on Yelp before she disappeared. “… and the tiny-dicked bastard hogged all the covers and ate his earwax.” But liking wasn’t a requirement of the job, especially since Rader Consulting’s business model was built on the backs of cheaters and scammers, hags and nags.

The doctor and the P.I. exited the medical office building and entered the bright outdoors with its thick, hills-on-fire air and flecked blue sky. One of Gray’s laparoscopic scars, left by her emergency appendectomy just six weeks before, burned and hissed beneath the waistband of her slacks, and she took a deep, cleansing breath of that tainted air.

“You know how to get to the Alumni Center from here?” Ian O’Donnell asked.

Gray pointed north. “Just walk that way.”

“You know who you’re gonna talk to?”

“Farrah, Beth, and Nan.”

“If you don’t solve this thing by four today, I’ll meet you at Iz’s place at five. She told me about ‘C.P. time,’ so not five ten or five thirty. Five sharp. Don’t be late. Please.”

The nerves beneath Gray’s skin crackled. Isabel Lincoln had the nerve to discuss “Colored People Time” with Ian O’Donnell? And then, he dared to utter that shit…?

Fifteen years ago, he’d be catching these hands. Alone again, Gray squeezed her eyes shut, waited for the pain in her middle to pass, and wished that she had completed her regimen of amoxicillin, then remembered that she carried in her purse the new refill of oxycodone that Dr. Messamer had prescribed for the pain.

She couldn’t find the oxycodone—she’d just picked it up from the pharmacy—but she did find a bottle of ibuprofen, 600 milligrams. Good enough. She popped one giant pill dry and it scraped along her throat. It was bitter, but then, on days like today, so was she.

I need another pen. “You have to do better than this.”

She fumbled through her purse again. After finding an ancient ballpoint coated in stickysomething and strands of hair, she sat on a nearby retaining wall and quickly transcribed her conversation with her new client. Alas, she had only approximations for dates, since she couldn’t decipher the gouged scribbles made by the dry pens she’d used in Ian’s office.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

Maybe she’d find Isabel Lincoln before having to rely on a timeline.

She winced, a little cranky, plenty sore, then plucked a small bottle of sanitizer from her battered handbag. As she rubbed gel into her hands, her phone buzzed.

A text message from Ian O’Donnell.

Just making sure you’re not lost.



“Seriously?” Gray texted back I’m good, and she started her trek to the Alumni Center.

Was Ian O’Donnell always this … asshole-y?

Sure, he wanted to know that his girlfriend was okay—but was that out of love and concern? Or was it because she’d made him look bad? Because how dare she dump him? And how dare she steal his dog?

Gray remembered how Ian O’Donnell had strolled back into the hospital. Lady nurses had waved at him. Men in scrubs had nodded at him. He was the Man.

But did any of them know about Isabel?





5


The Alumni Center’s executive director, Farrah Tarrino, was a plump, round-faced, freckled beauty with big blonde hair. She offered Gray a doughnut as they passed the center’s kitchen. Gray spotted a half a glazed in a pink box, along with a half purple-frosted and a half strawberry-filled with its guts seeping out like blood from a stuck pig.

“Help yourself,” Farrah said, plucking a halved cinnamon-crumbly from the box. “Workday is almost over; they’re just gonna be thrown away.”

Stomach growling, Gray selected the halved chocolate-glazed and immediately regretted her decision—chocolate and white linen slacks went together like canned ham and lobster.

Farrah pinched at her doughnut’s crumbly top, then squinted at Gray. “I’m sorry. Who are you working for again?”

Somehow, chocolate had already flecked the cuff of Gray’s shirt. She licked her thumb, then remembered, Damn it. I just came from a hospital. She then finished the doughnut in one hurried bite, wiping her fingers and mouth with the napkin. “I’m with Rader Consulting. I can’t say more than that. Client confidentiality.”

Farrah nibbled at crumbles. “Guess it doesn’t matter. We all want Izzy home safe and sound. Ab-so-lutely. I’ll take you to her desk. It’s quiet right now—summer hours. And lots of folks are on vacation.” Her panty-hosed thighs swooshed against each other as Gray’s mules slapped at the brown-tiled floor. Together, they weaved through the nearly empty cubicle farm and stopped at a double-wide cubby with two workstations.