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  But before I can finish the thought, her steps race to the door, which slams; a lock turns. I feel more than hear the vibrations through the floor as the SUV’s powerful engine roars to life and tires screech against the concrete of the parking lot.

  It takes me another couple of minutes to manage to sit upright. My throat is bruising, and there’s a bump near my hairline, the skin raw and scraped when I touch it, but I’ll live.

  Her purse is gone from the nightstand, her coat from the hook on the door. There’s a cell phone charger curled like a black worm near the bed, empty. I amble to the bathroom, holding on to the walls so I don’t fall over—oh shit, prints. I should be thinking about her prints, and mine, and not destroying evidence. Because everything suddenly is evidence, and it all means I’ll have to call. Somebody. Right now.

  I turn on the tap and gulp coppery motel water then wash my face. She had time to grab all her stuff from the sink, no soaps or lotions or hairbrush in sight.

  I groan with relief when I realize I still have my phone, in my back pocket where I left it. My hands are shaking so much I couldn’t dial a number even if I knew who to call, so I search through my jacket pockets, but all I find is an empty pack of cigarettes. Just as I’m about to toss it into the wastebasket near the bed, I notice a folded piece of paper tucked neatly inside the package.

  I ease it out and unfold it. Stare at it, trying to place that neat handwriting, careful loops of ink, spelling out letters and numbers.

  Call me if you need anything. Don’t hesitate. Remember, I’m always on your side.

  —Jacqueline S.

  And a phone number.

  I don’t know how it got there. When did she slip it in?

  My only other option is Sean. And I’m not calling him, not for anything.

  So I punch the numbers into my phone. And I call Jacqueline Shaw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jacqueline bursts into the room twenty minutes later. She looks so out of place here, in her neat trousers and cashmere sweater, her low heels clacking softly on the floor. Her face is creased with worry.

  She rushes over to me and crouches to my face level. Her small, warm hands brush the escaped strands of hair away from my forehead, smoothing them down. Tilting my face up, she peers into my eyes. “Lainey. What happened? Are you okay?”

  I try to nod but she’s still holding my chin. And I don’t want to break her hold. “It’s her. My—it’s Valerie.”

  “What did that crazy bitch do to you?”

  I wince. The word is so jarring and ugly coming from her.

  “Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay. Don’t tell me if it’s too painful to talk about. Only if you want to tell me, all right?”

  I force a nod. “I—I can tell you. She did it.”

  “What? Sweetheart, what did she do?”

  And I tell her, in a tiny, childlike voice threatening to escalate into sobs any second. I tell her about the juice box.

  For a very long moment, she’s silent, her eyes wide with shock. Overhead, the motel clock ticks away the seconds. It’s just me and Jacqueline, and the clock, and the words.

  Jacqueline draws me close with surprising strength for such a small, delicate woman. She pulls me into a hug, holds me to her chest, and strokes my hair.

  “You poor thing,” she whispers as she cradles me close. “You poor, poor thing.”

  Little by little, my tears start, first just a mist clouding over my vision, then a torrent, a river, a flood. Jacqueline holds me close. My tears and snot soak into her cashmere-clad shoulder, and she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She keeps stroking my back, keeps whispering small words of comfort until I can’t squeeze another drop of water out of my exhausted eyes.

  “I’m so glad that you called me,” she says softly. She sits up, takes a folded tissue out of her purse, and dabs it over my swollen eyelids. It’s one of those makeup wipes, damp and cool and delicately perfumed. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “I had no one else.” My voice sounds like something broken.

  “Well, you have me. Always. Don’t forget that.”

  I sniffle, unable to come up with words to express my gratitude.

  “Does Detective Ortiz know yet?”

  At the mention of the name, I jolt. I think the tears are about to start anew any moment, but I guess my eyes really can’t muster any more. “No,” I manage to say.

  She sighs patiently. “I know you can’t think about that right now, but you have to tell him. You have to call him.”

  The thought makes me want to howl.

  “Even if he hurt you, sweetheart, you have to call him. This is very important.”

  I look up at her, blinking my aching eyes. “What—how—”

  Her expression softens. “I could see it, plainly. Written all over your face. You love him, don’t you? And you have for a long time.”

  Suddenly I’m glad I have no more tears. “He’s—he’s not for me.”

  “You can’t tell that to your heart. And you can’t tell that to the little girl you used to be, can you?”

  No. No I can’t.

  “I wish I could snap my fingers and give you everything you need, as long as it could make you happy and whole. But even if nothing ever happens with him, there will be others, trust me. You’re a brave young woman who deserves good things. Who deserves to be loved, and who will be. Very, very much.”

  I can’t talk. Can only breathe. Just barely.

  “And right now, this is something he needs to know. As soon as possible. It could help him help Olivia. And it could help him help you too.”

  I’m not a courageous young woman who deserves happiness and love. Not by a long shot. And if she knew, if she only knew the half of it, she wouldn’t be sitting here, patting my head and letting me snot all over her thousand-dollar sweater.

  This much I know for a fact.

  And I also know she’s right. I have to call Sean.

  “Do you want me to call him for you?” she offers softly. I nod.

  “Okay. I’ll do that. But first, we’re going to take you home, all right?”

  I don’t argue. I follow her across the gray parking lot to her immaculate white BMW while she dials Sean’s emergency number on her cell. I climb into the passenger seat, slam the door behind me, and curl up, hugging my knees to my chest.

  I can only hear muffled echoes of her voice outside the car.

  And when she gets in, pale as a ghost, and grips the steering wheel with bloodless fingers, I don’t ask questions.

  * * *

  When we get to the hotel room—my hotel room, as much as I could ever call it mine—there are two police cars outside, parked near the entrance. My stomach drops, but Jacqueline is gripping my hand and I pass them without stumbling.

  On a good-natured and clueless impulse, she gave me one of her anxiety pills, the good stuff, much better than the generic I pick up from the drugstore with my prescription or the crap of unknown origin I get from Sugar. I’m wrapped in a soft cocoon of mental fog, like silk and velvet in my veins. It’s the only thing that’s keeping me from freaking out as I crane my neck, looking for Sean. But when we get to the room, he’s not there. It’s probably better that way.

  There’s no place to sit in the room except on the bed, so that’s where Jacqueline leaves me, propping me up with pillows like a doll. Then she launches into a flurry of activity, asking me if I want anything, then, ignoring my silence, getting a bottle of water from the minibar and starting the one-cup coffee machine. It sputters and spews that filter-coffee smell that only makes my stomach churn. Then she gets a first-aid kit somewhere—I can only guess where, because there wasn’t one in the room—and gets to work on the scraped skin along my hairline. As she tilts my head, the collar of my hoodie, which I’d pulled as tight as I could around my neck, falls away and she sees the bruises on my neck, which must be nice and plum by now. To her credit, she only falters momentarily.

  “Did she do that?
” Jacqueline’s tone is serious, empty of unnecessary emotion. I nod. “Bitch,” she mutters.

  “Did you know?” I say. My voice is getting hoarse because of the bruises.

  “I’m sorry?” She pats ointment on the scrape on my forehead.

  “Did you know. About her. Did Sean tell you?”

  “No. He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “But—I thought—”

  She gives an uncharacteristically bitter chuckle. “They don’t tell us everything about the investigation. They never do. Because even though we’ve been cleared for now, we’re still technically suspects, you see.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Just like you.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “That’s what they want you to think. It’s not personal; that’s how these things work. They can’t rule anything out.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” I say carefully. If she did, why is she here? Why is she doing all this?

  “No. Of course not. Lainey…”

  “And you. You and your husband—you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  She meets my gaze and lets go of a sigh. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her eyelids paper-thin and dark, shot through with needle-thin blue veins.

  “I’m sorry; I know you didn’t,” I hurriedly add. “I just want to hear it from you.”

  She resumes dabbing at my hairline, but there’s something mechanical about it now. “Don’t be sorry. I read the papers, and the things on the Internet. I know people make these crazy theories, but there’s not a sliver of truth to them, I swear. Lainey, look…”

  Behind her, the door opens, and I know who it is before I see him. His steps, muffled by the carpeting, stop a few feet away from us.

  Jacqueline gives a tiny jolt but regains control of herself and turns around. Her mouth is a thin line; her eyebrows furrow. No smiles this time, no polite “Detective Ortiz.” “I don’t think you should be here,” she says flatly.

  He pretty much ignores her. “I need to speak with Lainey.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

  “It’s about her mother. And it won’t wait.”

  I’m sitting right here, I want to scream, but I feel so hollow I might as well not exist.

  “Shouldn’t you be out looking for her instead?”

  He heaves a sigh, nostrils flaring, an expression I’ve learned to recognize, and my insides twist with foreboding. “There’s no more need for that. She’s been found.”

  Jacqueline’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t give her time to speak. “I’m sorry; I didn’t want to do this here. But Lainey, we found her car off the side of the highway outside town. She was in it, but it was too late. She had a gun. She killed herself.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jacqueline is outside, talking to another officer. It’s just me and Sean again.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. It’s the first stupid thing I’ve ever heard him say.

  “Did you know?”

  “About your mother’s new family? Of course I did.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and the worst kind of suspicions start to creep into my mind.

  “If I had known for sure, I wouldn’t have waited. I’d have arrested her in a heartbeat,” he says at last. “I was aware she knew something, of course. That’s why I went along with the whole thing, let her stay. I would have gotten her to tell me eventually. But then you went looking for her, and she panicked.”

  “Oh, really? It’s my fault now?”

  “I never said that. I was going to gain her trust, or get her to slip up, or—”

  “Gain her trust? Were you fucking her too? Jesus.” I cover my face with my hands. I almost wish I were sober right now.

  “No. I—”

  “Can you please just not talk?”

  “I hurt you. I’m sorry for that, but not for anything else.”

  “You saw me differently than anyone,” I say into my hands. “You looked at me, and you saw me. Not Ella. Not me the victim, or some broken flower who can’t go grocery shopping without having a mental breakdown. Not some walking time bomb on suicide watch. The real me.”

  “I do see you that way.” He has the presence of mind not to touch me. I’m not sure what would happen if he did.

  “My whole life I’ve been defined by other people, by what they did or didn’t do to me. I just thought I could be myself for a change. I could want something and take it. Just this once. That’s what it was all about, all right? I’m not in love with you or anything. I’m not going to kill myself over it, if that’s what you’re wondering. Just go and do your job—find Olivia. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m finished.”

  “It’s not that simple. You can’t just decide you’re finished.”

  “What more do you want from me?” I explode. “I’ve answered all your questions. I’ve turned every dark corner of my soul inside out looking for some shred of suppressed memory that could help. I was sure it was my fault for not being able to remember, and it turns out everybody’s been lying to me for years. For my own good.”

  I choke on a manic laugh and realize my cheeks are wet. Bewildered, I wipe the tears with the heels of my hands. “So, you know what? I’m finished. I’m going back to my apartment, and my life, while I still have one. It may not be your idea of a good life, but at least it’s all mine.”

  He watches me for a few long moments, and I can’t read his expression—it’s become closed to me again. Or maybe it never was open. I had just imagined the whole thing because it was what I wanted to see. I guess I’ll never know now.

  “Is that what you want? To go back to that dump, to your so-called job at the strip club—”

  “I’m a bartender,” I snap.

  “Well, at this rate, you won’t be for long. Just keep numbing yourself to it all until it completely overtakes your life, or you just overdose. Whichever comes first, right?”

  Silence rings hollow inside my head. “What?”

  “You really think I’m an idiot?”

  My gaze darts to the bathroom door. All I want is to race there and look in my hiding place, but I have a guess what I’ll see there.

  “There were police here. I didn’t want you to get into more trouble than you’re already in, so yeah, I went over every inch of the place before I let them in. Although on second thought, maybe I should have let them find your stash. It was quite impressive. I think there was enough in there for possession with intent to distribute, don’t you think?”

  “What did you do?” I whisper.

  “Flushed it down the toilet. Old-school. Which is why you’re here right now without handcuffs. You’re welcome.”

  “That stuff was prescribed to me.”

  He ignores me. “I’m still offering you my help. I can check you into a center where they’ll actually help you, not just lock you up. A place where you could kick this thing for good…”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “…So you don’t end up like your mother.”

  I want to hit him. I want to destroy him. The only thing that’s stronger than my hatred for him right now is my love for him, but that can never exist. It has to be hidden away like something secret and shameful. Like me. Like my whole life.

  So hatred it is. “Leave.”

  “You’re going to destroy yourself.”

  “I think it’s a little too late to worry about that.” I hold his gaze with contempt.

  “If that’s what you believe.” He shrugs and yanks up the zipper on his jacket. “If you think you have nothing to lose because you’re already destroyed, then I can’t help you.”

  “So what are you waiting for? Go.”

  And he does. He slams the door so hard that the door frame shakes. And I sit on the bed and squeeze the sheet to my chest, twisting it around in my hands.

  I keep waiting for someone to come barging in, cops maybe, or Jacqueline, fus
sing over me, thinking she could understand me, making it only worse with all the misguided kindness and compassion. But minutes tick away and nothing happens, and when I tiptoe to the door, turn the handle, and peer out, the hallway is empty.

  I’m all alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There are times when I’m sitting perfectly still, with a blank, safe look on my face like a good little lobotomy patient, and all the while I’m screaming inside my head. I’ve had lots of time to perfect it to an art form.

  But in here, in this hotel room, I could scream my head off if I wanted to. I could kick and break and smash things—someone else is going to take care of it, someone else picks up the tab. Instead I sit on my bed, with a sheet crumpled in my lap, and shiver. And inside my head, I scream for what feels like hours.

  Sometime near morning, I get up and start to pace until life returns to my arms and legs, and with it, understanding, and pain, and all the other stuff I always managed to cut myself off from, the stuff that stayed outside my safe, fuzzy chemical cocoon.

  I race to the bathroom and check everywhere to be sure, throwing all my makeup tubes on the floor. Everything’s gone. Fuck, I don’t even have an aspirin.

  The walls of the room move in on me, threatening to crush me. I can’t stay in here another minute. I can’t. I’ll go crazy.

  I go through every pocket, through my bag, but there are only a few dollar bills and my bank card to an empty account.

  My hands shake when I get my phone. It takes me even longer to pull up Sugar’s number.

  He picks up on the third ring. “Princess.”

  “Hey.” I’m mortified to admit it, but I go wobbly with relief when I hear his voice. My muscles quiver so much that the phone almost slips out of my sweaty hands.

  “What can I do for you today?”

  “I…I need a huge favor.” I try to make my voice all sweet sounding, but it seems I forgot how. “Can you advance me some Oxy? I get paid next week. You know I’m good for it and you know where I live so…”

  He stays silent for a moment, and my hope sinks. Terror clamps down on my heart. I’m sweating bullets, and I’m glad he can’t tell over the phone.