And Now She's Gone(82)

Hank must have been the one to alert Sean. Hey, guess who came into my cantina? Sure, I got her number. Hey, I have her address, too. Minutes ago, he’d even said to her, When we first met, I thought that I didn’t have a chance.

“First met” had meant back in the 2010s.

And she’d let Hank in because he wanted to use the bathroom. The same ruse she’d used in Idyllwild to enter Tea Christopher’s cabin.

And the big, bald white man who had wanted Mrs. Kim to let him in, that had to be Mr. Hook, the bodyguard who’d always followed Mrs. Dixon around the city.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Nick asked now.

Gray told him her theory as defeat found her again, as its stink clung to her skin. Her life had always been rugged country, with each day starting with “One more mountain.” That’s where hope ended and happiness started—just over that one more mountain.

“That’s why I can’t find the P.I. working for him,” Nick said. “Because there is no P.I.”

Gray caught her reflection in the mirror and startled. She had a black cap of hair so dark that all light disappeared there. Her skin looked as pale as black skin could. Thin—her skin looked thin. As if she were a ghost or a vampire. That she could see herself at all was the most startling.

“He knows where I am,” she whispered.

“I’ll come get you.”

“No. I don’t wanna run anymore.”

“Then let me end it. I won’t miss vital organs.”

“You think I missed on purpose?” Gray shouted. “Because I’m incompetent?”

Nick didn’t respond.

Heat swirled in her belly and spiraled up to her head. “You do think that.”

“Let me end it, Gray. I’ve done it before, without hesitation.”

She squeezed shut her eyes. “I’m handling it.”

“By giving up? You said you’d come here when shit got scary. Well, shit’s now scary, and you’re just … sitting there, waiting for this fucker to kill you.”

Resignation had settled on her like fog just hours ago. At that moment, resignation had triumphed over her one-more-mountain resolve. It was brackish water drowning the pinkish-red of dawn. Surrender, Dorothy. She’d thought that, and Nick knew she’d thought that, and now here he was, willing to kill Sean Dixon himself before letting her die from her surrender.

“I’m not giving up,” she said. “It’s my fight. I’m gonna handle it.”

He said nothing.

“I’m not giving up, all right? He will not win.”

“Natalie—Grayson. Shit.”

“I know. This is … I know.” And I’m sorry.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll let you know.” She forced herself to smile and take in the city lights before her. “I hear Tahiti’s nice. We can open up a little bookstore and a coffee shop.”

He said, “Sure.”

Tears burned her eyes as she thought of returning to Monterey Bay and watching that ocean, drinking wine while reading a big book about Antarctica or the space race as fog slid off the ocean and settled around the hills. Doing that by herself—that was good. Doing that with Nick—that was good, too. But if she succeeded in doing what she’d planned to do, she couldn’t return to that house on the bay.

Nick didn’t ask if she was okay, probably because he knew that she’d have to be okay, or else. He also knew that she had a gun and would use it if needed.

“I still have your biscuits,” Gray said now. “But they’re cold and hard.” Just like my heart at this very moment.

He said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“So, what’s this update you have about the Lincoln case?”

Trash bag in hand, she trekked to the kitchen, shoved the bag into the waste can, then pulled open the freezer door. She grabbed the icy bottle of vodka. Right then, she didn’t need olives or vermouth or a glass. Take that shit straight, that’s what Mom Twyla had always said before chugging from the bottle of Smirnoff. An elf with a gut, that had been Mom Twyla. All of her drinking and fried chicken and cheese had made her bloated and puffy. She’d squeezed into her clothes only to have the middle part of her whoopie pie beyond the shirttail and waistband. And she’d offer her foster daughter a sip of Smirnoff only after the bottle was nearly empty. Li’l Bit’s belly had burned as the vodka hit it, and little Natalie Kittridge liked how Mom Twyla would smile at her and say, “That shit’s tight, huh?” Li’l Bit would smile back at her and say, “Yeah.” Then she’d try to read the Vibe article about LL Cool J or Al B. Sure!, but her mind would keep flopping.

Now, so many years later, Natalie Kittridge Grayson Dixon, aka Grayson Sykes, wanted her mind to flop, and she wanted her belly to warm.

But not tonight. Or on any night that she remained prey to Sean’s predator.

“Hassan did something nice for you,” Nick said. Hassan was their hacker for hire and guide to all things dark web. His name wasn’t Hassan, and Gray wasn’t even sure he was a he.

“He got into the Lincoln woman’s Facebook account.”

Bottle tipped over the sink, Gray said, “That’s illegal, you know.” The icy liquid swirled into the drain and the fumes nearly made her explode all over the kitchen. A good way to go.