Nate’s hands slide under my shirt and up my back, and with expert ease he undoes my bra. He used to be so proud of that move as a teenager.
I lurch away from him, unsteady on my feet. ‘I . . . I just need the bathroom,’ I say, and before he can even point me in the right direction I dart towards the narrow hallway.
‘First on the right,’ he calls after me.
I rush inside and turn to lock it but there is no lock. I sink down onto the toilet, shaking while simultaneously fanning my overheated face. Shit. What am I doing? I glance around at the threadbare towels, Nate’s aftershave and razor sitting on the side. This is not a good idea. But how do I get out of it?
I’ll just go out there and tell him I can’t go through with it. He’ll understand.
I stand up and re-do my bra, then stare at myself in the mirror, feeling like I’m staring at my evil twin. I can’t believe I almost slept with him.
I wash my hands and dry them on the towel, freezing at the sight of a pink hair tie on the side of the bath with long strands of blonde hair caught in it.
Behind me the door flies open. I jump and spin around to find Nate standing there, a concerned smile on his face. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.
I nod but he must see something in my expression as his eyes fly past me and land on the hair tie.
‘That’s my daughter’s,’ he says, reaching and picking it up. ‘She stayed here last weekend.’ Something about the way he says it sounds off. He’s too quick to explain it, his voice too high. His daughter’s, or another woman’s? I wonder. Another reason to be glad I didn’t sleep with him.
‘I should go,’ I say, looking around for my bag. My keys. Oh shit. I left my car in town. Damn. I’ll need to call an Uber. Where’s my bag?
‘Ava.’ A hand on my arm. He pulls me gently around. ‘My daughters came to stay last weekend. I’ve been finding their things lying all around ever since. You know what teenage girls are like.’
I nod. ‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I just . . . it doesn’t feel right. I can’t do this.’
I grab my bag and rush for the door. I’ll call a cab outside.
‘Wait,’ he says and rushes after me. ‘Let me at least drive you back to your car.’
I think about it but I don’t want to be rude so I nod. ‘OK.’
We drive in silence the five minutes back to where I parked outside the bar. When he parks he reaches over and takes my hand. I turn to look at him, feeling a pang in my stomach. I’m still attracted to him and still feel the buzz of excitement of being touched by him, but he’s not what I want and I’m not going to get what I need from him. I slide my hand out from under his.
‘Bye Nate,’ I say.
‘No hard feelings,’ he replies.
‘No hard feelings,’ I answer.
Chapter 43
DAY 9: Evening
I pull up outside a small, shabby, clapboard house in Meiners Oaks. A shopping cart’s been abandoned in the front yard – which is a no-man’s-land of rubble – and a beat-up old camper van with no tires, decorated with marijuana leaves and Bob Marley stickers, is parked on bricks in the drive. I wonder who on earth lives here and then decide I don’t want to find out.
When I beep the horn the front door opens and out slopes Gene. Behind him I catch a glimpse of a girl wearing skimpy underwear and a tatty Bison Lodge T-shirt. Gene hurries over to the car and jumps in the passenger side.
‘Is it June?’ he asks me immediately. ‘Is she OK?’
I didn’t tell him anything on the phone, just that I needed him and it was an emergency. I think I took some small pleasure in keeping him on tenterhooks.
‘She’s the same,’ I tell him, tossing a plastic bag into his lap, and stepping on the accelerator.
‘What’s this?’ he asks.
‘Open it,’ I tell him.
He fumbles with the knot I tied in the bag. ‘Holy shit! Where’d you find this?’ he asks, eyes wide.
‘Hidden in June’s room.’
He slams his head back into the headrest, taking a deep breath in. ‘Oh shit. She took the money?’
I nod. The driver behind honks their horn and I jump. The light’s green. I pull onto the 33 towards Ventura.
‘She was in my apartment,’ Gene says, disbelief in his voice. ‘I didn’t think about it before but now I remember. A month ago, I guess. I found her. She told me she was looking for her tennis racket. I thought it was weird at the time because she hasn’t played tennis in years. But why . . .?’ He shakes his head. ‘Why would she take it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him honestly. I’ve been wondering myself. June wasn’t a thief. Why would she take it?
Gene exhales, punching the seat and swearing. ‘She must have thought I was going to use it to buy drugs . . . She caught me smoking a few times.’ A quick glance my way and he holds up his hands. ‘I know! I’m sorry. She lectured me about it one time – sounded just like you and Dad. They did some talk at her school about drugs being bad. Gave out these flyers. She left them on my bed.’
It comes back to me then, the conversation I had with her the night she was shot. She asked me what I would do if I knew someone had done something bad but that telling the truth would get them in trouble. She was talking about Gene, not Abby. She took the money because she was trying to do the right thing.
‘Hey, slow down . . .’
The speedometer is flying upwards, nudging ninety. I ease off the gas, my arms rigid on the wheel.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Gene.
My grip on the wheel tightens as if it’s his neck
