Dea bent down and pulled the liner out of the tiny stainless-steel pedal bin and replaced it with a fresh one. Was just about to tie a knot in the used liner when she felt something hard and plastic amongst the soiled face wipes and used cotton buds. Intrigued, she pulled out the item. It was a pregnancy test. One line in the tiny window. A negative result. Dea wondered if Kristy had been sad or relieved.
She flashed back to an August day eight years ago. Both of her parents at work. Cold faucet running in the bathroom to help make her pee. The sharp edges of the plastic toilet seat biting into Dea’s skin as she’d shifted awkwardly to hit the tip of the stick just right when the flow finally did come. Skinny legs shaking as she’d waited the longest three minutes of her life for the result.
Two lines in the tiny window.
From virgin to teen mom just like that.
She returned Kristy Jensen’s pregnancy test to the used trash bag and knotted it. Turned her attention to the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink. She never could resist a peek inside the lives of the people she worked for. One of the very few perks of the job. And this one told her a fair bit about the Jensen-Jenners.
There was the usual boring crap—razors, over-the-counter painkillers, zit cream, cold cream. Some Men’s Rogaine hidden right at the back. Ouch. That was fast, assuming Derek was of a similar age to Kristy. There was a half-empty box of tampons and two more pregnancy test kits, still in the cellophane packaging. A bottle of Xanax with the sticky label in Kristy’s name.
Maybe the class of ’82 had gotten that one wrong after all.
Dea twisted the top off the anti-anxiety meds and shook one out. Placed it on her tongue. She did that sometimes. Took little things she knew wouldn’t be missed—a lipstick to help make her look good, a little dinosaur bookmark from the kids’ room for Buddy, some hand cream to soothe the dried skin, a tiny blue pill to help her get through the rest of the day. She wasn’t a thief. She’d never help herself to cash or jewelry or anything big. She just wanted a little bit of what everyone else had.
As she closed the medicine cabinet door, the pregnancy kits caught Dea’s eye again and it struck her then that she had something Kristy didn’t have. Something Kristy desperately wanted. Fuck having the big house and the perky ponytail and the brand-new set of wheels. So what if Dea didn’t have two spare dimes to rub together? So what if she was exhausted from working late shifts in the bar and cleaning other folks’ homes during the day?
She had Buddy and that made her the luckiest woman in the whole damn world as far as she was concerned.
Things might have turned out differently had she told her mom and dad the truth about what happened that summer’s night. Maybe they wouldn’t have kicked their only child out onto the street like a dog, with a few hundred bucks in her pocket, to make her way alone in the world. Maybe they wouldn’t have let the townsfolk wonder what had happened to star student Dea Morgan, rather than just dealing with the shame of everyone knowing the pastor’s seventeen-year-old daughter had gotten knocked up.
But they would never have let her keep Buddy in a million years—and life without her little boy was simply unthinkable.
Dea felt a sudden, almost overwhelming, surge of love for him. Decided when she picked him up from school later that she’d treat him to McDonald’s for dinner. One of those Happy Meals, with the free toy. Maybe some ice cream too. Dea would go without, hopefully pick up some food at the bar later. The portions were huge and there were usually some leftovers to nibble on after clearing away the customers’ plates.
She made her way downstairs to vacuum the carpets before Kristy got home.
Dea didn’t know if it was thinking about Buddy, or the effects of the little blue pill kicking in, but she suddenly felt like she was floating. Felt happier than she had done in months. Dea and Buddy—they’d be okay. They just needed to catch a break. She smiled to herself.
Dea knew their luck would turn soon. She could feel it in her weary bones.
3
JESSICA
Jessica stepped out of the office straight onto the sidewalk and lit a Marlboro Gold.
MAC Investigations was a small shopfront on Washington Boulevard, wedged between a bike rental place and a deli, on a tiny drab block the color of cold cappuccino that seemed at odds with the vibrancy elsewhere in the neighborhood. The agency’s name was stenciled on a square of pebbled glass on the front door and a blue canvas canopy shaded Jessica from the mid-morning sun.
She smoked the cigarette and thought about the two women Renee Simmonds had told them about before she’d left.
Amanda Meyers was a legal assistant at a lawyers’ firm in Downtown LA. She’d been reported missing two years ago by her parents, who lived out of town, after they’d been unable to reach her and she’d then failed to show for work. She was thirty-three when she disappeared.
Mallory Wilcox was a married stay-at-home mom. Then forty-eight years old, she had two young kids and resided in the town of Whitewater over in Riverside County. She’d been missing for eighteen months.
The last known whereabouts of both women was the Twentynine Palms Highway.
Jessica took a final draw on the cigarette, crushed the butt on the lid of a nearby trash can and dropped it inside. The Culver CityBus whooshed past and the towering palm trees on either side of the street shivered in the light breeze. She popped an Altoid and headed back inside.
Her laptop was set up on the conference table, where they’d had the meeting with Renee, and which was also doubling up as Jessica’s desk. She thought about getting a pen holder or a framed photo or a plant, something to make the space more personal. Then again, she might not stick around long enough to keep a plant alive.
“What do you have?” she asked, slipping back into her seat.
Connor looked up from his computer screen, where he’d been reading press cuttings on Mallory Wilcox. He occupied the only desk in the office, a cheap white fiberboard thing that looked like it’d come from a Swedish flatpack store. In fact, everything in the room—the shelves, magazine files, filing cabinets, two-seater funky-patterned sofa—looked like they’d been purchased at IKEA.
“Mallory told her husband she was attending a candle party at a friend’s house and not to wait up,” Connor said. He looked at Jessica. “What the fuck is a candle party?”
“I believe it’s when a bunch of middle-aged women get together and drink wine and, um, buy some over-priced candles,” Jessica said. “You know, like Tupperware parties. Only with candles.”
“Sounds like a blast. Anyway, when hubby realized the next day that Mallory hadn’t come home, he tried her sister. The sister knew about the candle party but hadn’t heard from Mallory. The husband tracked down the friend, who had no idea what party he was talking about, so he called the cops. They found out Mallory’s credit card had been used at a gas station on the Twentynine Palms Highway the previous night. CCTV footage from the gas station confirmed it was Mallory who’d used the card. She’d bought some snacks and booze and then driven off. No one else was in the car with her. There were no more sightings of her—she just vanished.”
“Anything else?”
“An article in one of the tackier newspapers hinted at marital problems.”