“No. I was hiking earlier. I saw her in the ravine.”
“It was a woman you saw? Can I ask when this was?”
“This morning.”
“And the body is female?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call an ambulance at the scene?”
“She must be dead,” I hear myself say, the facts bald and heartless. “I think she’d fallen. A long way. She must be dead. Somebody needs to go and get her.” I recoil at my own choice of words but it will not serve the situation to be emotional.
“I understand, I’m sorry you had to witness that, that must have been traumatic.” I’m sure her consoling words must follow a call-center script but I still find them a comfort. “If you can give me as exact a location as you can, then we can get someone down there as soon as possible. I can give you details of a counselor if you feel you need to talk to somebody about what you witnessed today?”
I decline but tell her as accurately as I can where to find Marla. I can only pray that given the relatively short time she has been outside in the elements someone, somewhere, will be able to identify her. I give the operator as much information as I can before hanging up and heading back to my waiting Uber with a fresh crime report number scrawled carefully onto the back of my scrap of paper.
—
Nick is waiting for mein his driveway. He clocks my bruised face as I get out and looks at me horrified.
“This happened just after you left my house?” he asks, clearly filled with guilt.
“Well, it happened Downtown actually. I rear-ended a garbage truck at a traffic light.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how it happened, something wrong with the car’s relay again I guess, or something. Someone explained it to me but I was out of it,” I tell him.
He pulls me into a gentle bear hug, careful not to squeeze or crush my battered body. I let myself sink into him, though, and listen to the sound of his calm heart beating through his chest for a moment. God, he feels good. Like being at home already.
Nick whisks me and my luggage inside insisting he’ll drive me to LAX himself. He offers to make me a tea and—seeing it as an opportunity to nip downstairs—I accept, letting him head off to the kitchen while I head to the bathroom.
Downstairs, I head straight for Nick’s bedroom, listening for breaks in his activity upstairs. I carefully unwrap the Sig, wipe it down once more, and place it gently back into its drawer.
I hear him heading toward the staircase, his pace slow, teas in hand, and I dash as quietly as I can to the bathroom to make a show of finishing up. I pull the door open and he’s leaning against the wall by the doorframe, two mugs in hand. He holds my gaze as I stand in front of the blocked doorway.
“What did you want to tell me?” he asks, finally, sipping his tea.
I frown, unsure what he means.
He gives me a soft smile. “In your text you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
I had wanted to tell him how sorry I was for leaving so suddenly after we’d been getting on so well, but now, standing in front of him, even the idea of doing that ignites a hot flush that moves with lightning speed up my neck to my pummeled face.
His eyes are on me, watching carefully, patient and quietly amused. “Were you planning on telling me you took my handgun yesterday by any chance?” he asks gently. “Because I’m guessing it’s back in the drawer now, right?”
I straighten at his words but can only respond with dumb silence, caught red-handed and lost for words. He looks at me expectantly though not angrily.
“Yeah, it’s back in the drawer,” I answer, wincing at the sheer awkwardness of the exchange, my eyes searching him for a reaction. “…Sorry?” I add. It’s a question.
He holds my gaze. “Okay,” he says after a pause. “Is that it?”
“I’m sorry, Nick,” I repeat.
He nods. “Right, I mean, I wish you’d just asked.” He sips his tea, conscious of the oddness of the conversation but clearly keen to keep things on an even keel. “I’m dying to know why you needed it.”
I remain silent, bathed in a weird kind of shame I haven’t felt since childhood. He’s not reacting like I thought he would. He’s acting like I borrowed his toothbrush.
“You didn’t use it, I’m guessing?”
“No,” I confirm with a firm shake of the head. “Definitely not.”
