And Now She's Gone(84)
-I’m ready for our first time
-keycard at the lobby
The messages between Elyse Miller and Tommy Hampton stopped on March 26, a day before the puffy-cloud, “Beautiful day” beach post on March 27. There were no indications that they’d met at the Best Western in Oakland.
“Guess they finally slept together and got it out of their systems,” Nick said.
“You sound bored,” Gray said, still scrolling through the messages.
“Desk work. At the Bureau, I always hated the desk work. That’s why I hired you and twenty other people.”
“Well, go chase somebody down an alley, then. I’ll catch you later.”
“Natalie—”
“I’ll be careful, Dom. Gun’s right here, and I’m completely sober.” “Completely sober” also meant no oxycodone and no Percocet. “Trust that I’ll call you if shit goes sideways.”
He sighed, then said, “Good night.”
Gray rose to close the blinds, and pain crackled around her navel. She sat back down and closed her eyes. Waited for the pain to stop.
Beyond her bedroom, the refrigerator coughed and rattled.
She said, “There, there, fridge,” as she plucked the ibuprofen bottle from her bag. She popped four, then waited … waited … inhaled … exhaled … until …
With her body at peace again, she clicked over to Tommy Hampton’s Facebook page.
There was a picture of Tommy and a little girl who wore beaded cornrows and had her father’s heavy-lidded eyes. There was a page header: “Remembering Thomas Hampton. We hope people who loved Tommy find comfort in visiting his profile to remember and celebrate his life.”
The last message had been posted just months ago, on March 26, three years after Elyse and Tommy had agreed to meet at the Best Western.
You are missed.
Before that, countless posts:
man, I remember how we …
Praying for your family and friends …
Thinking of you bro …
You’re an angel now …
Day of remembrance …
I won’t rest until I get justice for my brother. I know who did it!!!!!
Tommy Hampton was dead.
There were only two short articles on the internet that told of a hotel maid finding Tommy Hampton on the floor of room 321 at the Best Western. A pair of boxers had been shoved into his mouth, a pillow had been dropped on his face, and there had been bullet holes in both the pillow and his forehead. The toxicology report had shown ketamine in his system. Also known as a date-rape drug, Special K, ketamine, made you immobile.
Tommy Hampton couldn’t even fight back before he was killed.
Had Elyse Miller killed him?
And if she had killed him, then maybe she murdered Omar Neville, too.
Gray searched for any recent news on the most recent dead man, but she found nothing more than the article she’d read days ago.
Myracle Hampton, Tommy’s sister, had accused Elyse of killing— No. She had accused Isabel Lincoln—
Isabel … Elyse … They were the same woman.
45
The morning’s rhythmic thump-thump-thump of helicopter music made Gray open her eyes. She lay in bed, curled into a fetal position, a prim protective ball now being warmed by a V-shaped shaft of light. She blinked and her eyes crunched.
The bedroom smelled like burning forests and car exhaust—after this summer of fire, her apartment’s air filters would resemble a honeycomb that had been buried in a mine shaft.
Her phone buzzed from a place within the twisted bed linens. She pawed the comforter and top sheet until she hit something hard and rectangular.
Fucking the help now?
The picture: a selfie of a smiling Hank, with her asleep in his arms.
He sent this last week, piece of shit trying to make me jealous
Gray’s breath left her lungs.
Angry tears made those words twist, and she shoved her face into a pillow.
How could Hank betray her like this? How could he— I told him he could have your fat ass
remember how U hated doing this back in the day
The next picture showed her standing at a gas pump, blocks from Rader Consulting.
Ants crawled over her skin. More tears—hotter, angrier ones—rolled down her cheeks and dropped into the comforter. She swiped at those tears with the bedsheet, then tapped a message on the digital keyboard.
You got me. You found me. I’m here. Now what?
Fucker.
Grayson Sykes wasn’t the same woman she’d been five years ago, fake-grimacing at the thought of touching gas pumps, even though she’d grown up touching roach husks and rat corpses. Faking her disgust had made Sean feel manlier, though, and so …
No. She wasn’t the same woman he had scared with his violence, a woman made meek by isolation. If he wanted her, he could come get her, and he’d die in his attempt to drag her to Vegas or to hell or both. Sean knew Natalie Dixon and had put too much trust in that outdated intel.
To force him fully into the light, Gray typed, we can meet and u can threaten me to my face just like the old days. U know where I am With trembling hands, she burned that “Dating” number and every other number except the one Nick used and the one for Isabel Lincoln’s case. She also burned her work number and would give Jennifer, Clarissa, and Zadie a temporary one to use, along with some wack explanation about the need to change it.