And Now She's Gone(91)

Cayden, Cierra, and Precious … Cayden, Cierra, and Precious.

There was a public phone at the Chevron, but she didn’t call the driver of the curry-smelling cab. In under five minutes, another taxi had picked her up, and the cabbie drove her to SD Promotions. Located in a business park just a stone’s throw from McCarran Airport, SD Promotions leased space in a mirrored building. Sean’s office manager had crammed Staples furniture into cubicles and offices the size of cereal boxes. Small pods of smokers hung out at the public ashtrays near the turfed pocket park. Administrative assistants in short skirts and cheap heels drank SlimFast shakes at the benches close to the parking lot.

Gray didn’t know why she’d come here. Was she going to kill Sean at the office? Watch him bleed out on that glass and metal desk he’d spent nearly ten thousand dollars on? The desk where they’d conceived … Faye. That would have been her name, if she’d been a girl.

The white stenciled letters on the closest parking space read “Sean Dixon.”

“Sean Dixon?” the pretty blonde at the reception desk asked.

Gray didn’t know this woman, but then, he’d only let her visit the office a handful of times. “The owner,” Gray said now. “Is he here?”

“Let me check.” She stood, tugged at her short skirt, and strode toward the offices.

“You can call him from this fancy phone right here, you know,” Gray said.

“One minute.” The blonde waggled her fingers and disappeared into the cubicle maze.

Gray’s eyes flicked from the blown-up photos of staged parties and weddings to the burbling pyramid-shaped water fountain on a coffee table.

The blonde returned to the reception desk, wearing that same synthetic smile. “Mr. Dixon isn’t in today.”

Gray said, “Okay,” but she didn’t move to leave.

“Would you like to leave a message?”

“No.” She still couldn’t move.

The blonde was staring at her. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Uh-huh. He went to visit his wife in L.A.”





FIVE YEARS AGO


NEVER YELL “HELP”

Dry-mouthed and barely breathing, Mrs. Dixon dared herself to peek at her panties—no blood. She popped two Vicodin left over from crashing through the glass patio door and receiving stitches for that seven-inch gash. She stood at the mirror—bloody lip and nose—and told her reflection, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Dixon said this again—“I can’t. I won’t”—then took three long pulls from the vodka bottle in the freezer. It had been six weeks since her last drink.

She kneeled on the kitchen floor to clean up the food. If he touches me one more time …

The garage door rumbled.

Mrs. Dixon kept scraping Chow’s Chinese into one neat heap.

And just as she’d scraped the last peanut into that neat pile, Sean touched her again.

“Touch” was such a pleasant, intimate word. So, no, he didn’t “touch.” He “slammed” and “punched” and “grabbed.” Rice, chicken, and peanuts stuck to her face, her hands, and the undersides of her feet. She pleaded with Sean to stop, to leave, to forgive her for cutting her hair and burning the rice, but he wouldn’t stop, so she cried to God, and when He didn’t respond, she called for Lorraine and Phil, Chris and Maud, and screamed “Fire!” and “Help!” as his punches and kicks rocked her body.

He wouldn’t stop.

She blindly grabbed at the space around her until her hand found …

Maybe God was listening.

She’d just used that knife to cut lime wedges for her glass of Pellegrino, and now here it was, knocked to the tile along with Chow’s Chinese. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and energy shot from it like Thor’s hammer. That electricity coursed through her, and with one push of her knee against Sean’s chest, she gained enough space to hold it out before her.

In his rage, Sean didn’t see the knife, and he lunged at her.

The blade tore past his T-shirt, broke through his skin, and sank deep into his abdomen.

He shrieked as he clutched his belly. Fear shone in his eyes, black and shiny as beetles.

She kicked him, scrambled to stand, slipping, sliding in rice, blood, tears, and spit.

On the tile, he moaned and writhed in pain.

She stepped over him.

Even then, he couldn’t help himself, and he grabbed her ankle.

She shouted, “No!” and stomped his hand.

He shouted, “Ahh!” and released her.

She ignored his grasping and his hoarse curses, and she prayed that more of his blood gushed out of him and that God would bleed him like the pig he was.

She grabbed her keys from the dining room table and ran to the garage. The door was barely up enough before she threw the Jaguar into reverse and roared out of the driveway. Racing east, toward the Strip, her eyes darted from the road ahead of her to the rearview mirror and the road behind her. It wouldn’t be long before he climbed into his SUV and hunted her down.

A half hour later, Mrs. Dixon found herself in the parking lot of the Gold Mine Motor Inn off Paradise Road. The two-story 1960s motel dipped on the edges and was fading before her eyes. It was that run-down and that sandblasted—so tragic, so awfully … bad that it was almost funny. She sat in the parking lot, shaking now as the adrenaline wore off. She had no money, no identification, no phone. She couldn’t go back to Trail Spring Court. If Sean had nearly killed her before she’d stabbed him, he’d certainly kill her now. No, she couldn’t go back. But she had no gas in the car and no way to buy any.