She tapped the phone icon next to Isabel’s name. The line rang and rang. Don’t go. Please don’t go. And she’d barely caught her breath before the phone pulsed against her ear.
I’m not going to talk to u
OK, Gray texted, have Tea talk to me face to face.
No response.
Isabel Lincoln had ducked back into her bunker.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
THE FIRST
Mrs. Dixon had always been tiny. Malnourished as a baby, she always looked hungry, like food only passed her lips on bank holidays. Standing next to Sean—six three, two hundred ten pounds of college-ball muscle—she was the butterfly to his vulture.
She loved his hands. Loved those beautiful, long brown fingers, crooked from old breaks caused by catching flying pigs. Strong hands.
After checking into their Jacuzzi suite on the twelfth floor of the Bellagio Hotel and Casino, after watching the famous water show from their living room window, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon shopped at Armani, Chanel, and Gucci down on Via Bellagio. At Cartier, he bought her a diamond for her nose.
“Damn.” Sean gazed at the stone he’d bought her. “You are fuckin’ fly, baby.”
A perfect first-year anniversary weekend already, a staycation that would’ve been the envy of her friends … had they known.
As the sun set over Sin City and they ate dinner at Le Cirque, he toasted her. He told her, “You are my life,” as the sky turned pink, red, and desert blue. His love was astonishing. White hot. Phosphorescent. His love made Mrs. Dixon close her eyes and look away.
You deserve this. After everything … You deserve this. This man. This joy. This two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. This lobster risotto. Lift up your head. You deserve this.
Her happiness made her dizzy, Disneyland teacups dizzy—she now knew this feeling, since Sean had taken her to the Magic Kingdom for her very first time. She liked that feeling then—Disneyland would never make her sick sick; they loved her—and she liked that feeling now. In the last year, Sean’s love had exploded all around her. Like mink-lined shrapnel, his love had struck her in unexpected ways. But she didn’t fear it.
She had thought her diamond engagement ring—three carats, princess cut, smaller baguettes on each side, worth two paychecks, she’d been told—made sparks fly out of other girls’ eyes. But it had been her simple, sleek platinum band that had sent those bipedal, stiletto-wearing hyenas stampeding and frothing at the mouth. She’d caught the gold ring (well, platinum) and she’d sure as hell celebrate.
And celebrating—that was their (well, Sean’s) business. And he’d gone all out for her on their special weekend, even though living in Las Vegas had lost its glow. Too loud, this city. The world’s toilet, this city, where everybody came to take a dump and live their worst lives.
Tonight, she’d play.
She was Mrs. Sean Dixon.
One year of wearing his name. One happy year flossing that platinum band that, in some types of light, resembled sea foam. One year of wearing designer clothes and pushing a Jaguar. A dream life.
After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon took a town car to dance at Club Rio, the location of his client’s event on this night. After dancing, she took the third position at a blackjack table with a twenty-five-dollar minimum bet. She didn’t like playing with such a high minimum, but Sean had a reputation to maintain. No five-dollar shit for his wife. His wife.
Since he was a lousy blackjack player (he claimed it was a boring game that had nothing to do with skill), Sean stood behind her chair.
The dealer laid before the little lady in the red and black Betsey Johnson party dress a six of diamonds and a four of spades. The other bettors had numbers, which meant aces and faces had to come next.
The rich, red-faced Texan on her right had been cursed with a ten of diamonds and a three of clubs. So he doubled down on Mrs. Dixon’s ten. The dealer slipped an ace of clubs on that ten. Twenty-one! Everyone—except Sean—whooped and clapped.
Texas patted her hand with his pudgy one, then squeezed. “Keep the money, darlin’.”
Two hundred fifty dollars. She kept the money. A thrill ran through her. Like she was wine-wasted and owned all the cheese in the world.
Sean glared at her. Didn’t congratulate her. Didn’t say a word to her after that. He walked in front of her. Wouldn’t hold the doors open for her. He was mad.
They returned to Club Rio and Sean danced with stripper-body Chyna—he knew her from back in the day. He bought skinny blonde Anise drinks—it was the first time that they could party without having to work. He found every reason to avoid returning to their table and sharing the bottle of Moët. Prince’s “Adore” played—their song—and Sean stayed on the other side of the club, joking with some skank who slouched and couldn’t even walk right in her heels.
His silent anger, though, was better than his active anger. Not that he’d hit her or anything. Sometimes, it had just felt like he would.
10
Pens—I need pens.
Gray pawed through the Camry’s center console and found two new ballpoints. She scribbled on a page in her binder—plenty of ink. Then she rolled down her car window and sniffed: eucalyptus and skunk. No scent of ham or bullshit—Ian O’Donnell hadn’t arrived yet.
That moment ended, though, as a dark gray Porsche raced in Gray’s direction. The convertible swerved into a parking space closest to the entry gate. The blond man behind the steering wheel didn’t climb out of the car.
Neither did Gray.
Ian O’Donnell held a phone to his ear.
Gray picked up her own phone—fully charged now—and aimed it in Ian’s direction.
“Just ignore him,” Ian was saying. “There’s nothing that says you gotta answer his text.” He laughed that big cannon laugh that men give women while talking on the phone. Extra loud. Overcompensating so that it could be believed, since it couldn’t be seen.
“You act like you don’t see me all day,” Ian continued. “No.… Well, she’s … I know.… I’m here now.… I know it’s not cheap, but I gotta look for her.… Ha!… Maybe she’s transgendered or … Her name … I know, right?” He laughed again, then looked at his watch. “There you go again with the ‘chocolate factory.’ … Cuz I hate it when you say racist shit like that. I can’t believe you’re jealous of a … Not my type, no.… She’s not my type.… I wouldn’t say she’s fat…”
Ian was talking about her.
“She’s … chubby, like what’s-her-face from American Idol, Jennifer … That one. Seriously.… Ha!… No, you’re my … I am being serious.” He flipped down the visor mirror and picked at something stuck between his front teeth. “Yes, I will.… Gotta go.… She’s gonna be here … Yes, I’ll call you after.… Okay.… Me, too.”
Gray glanced at the time stamp on the phone. 0:00. Shit. She’d forgotten to tap the big red Record button.
Ian O’Donnell climbed out of the Porsche. He still wore his blue surgical scrubs—sunshine and honey for some women. He tossed a glance up the street and peered at his watch. He muttered something, then shook his head, frustrated with the chubby, transgender chocolate private eye with the dude’s name. At the security gate, he punched in the entry code, then disappeared into the shadows.