—
My bags lie waiting by the door as I fish the unused Sig from last night’s jacket. I wipe it down carefully, removing the hillside dust as well as my fingerprints. I remove the bullet, wipe it clean, and carefully reinsert it, wrapping the whole gun tightly in a clean dishcloth before slipping the snug package back into my handbag. I ball up the jacket, double-bag it, and deposit it in the trash. From what I can see, it doesn’t have any blood on it, but it’s sweaty and dusty and frankly I’d rather never see it again.
I scan the empty apartment. I’m ready. I tap out a message to Nick.
Today, 5:02pm
Are you at home? Something happened last night. Was involved in a car accident. I’m fine just bruised. I’m flying home on the red-eye tonight. It’d be great to come say goodbye before I go x
The message registers as read, gray dots pulse as he types. I imagine his concerned face, his concentrated expression. I’m really going to miss him.
OMG. What happened? You should have called me! Where are you? Hospital? Home? I’ll come over now. I had a sense something was off.
I smile stupidly at the screen; he cares about me. He has no idea how much he’s helped me already—but he can’t come here, I need to get to his house. I need to get his gun back to his house, back in its drawer, and the sooner the better.
I’m okay. Can I drop by your house on the way to the airport? Just leaving my place now.
Then I add—
We need to talk.
His gray dots pulse…
Of course, I’ll head back there now. Is everything all right? Are you sure you’re okay?
Yeah, just shaken up. I’m getting an Uber over now.
Great. See you there.
I order my Uber, jot a phone number from the LAPD website down onto a scrap of paper, then lock up the apartment and haul my bags down to the lobby. A different receptionist is working today, someone I haven’t met before. I hand over the apartment key to her and explain that I’m traveling back to London and someone will be in touch soon to sort everything out. Then I duck my head into the valet station and give Miguel the biggest hug, explaining away my departure and saying a proper goodbye.
Outside the sun begins to set as I hop in my Uber, an unexpected dread brewing inside me as I head to Nick’s to play out the last step of my plan.
Around West Hollywood I catch sight of what I’ve been looking for through the car window and ask the driver to pull over. I trot back along the sidewalk to an old public phone booth and pull out the crinkled scrap of paper with the phone number. It’s the LAPD twenty-four-hour anonymous hotline, anyone can call in and report a crime anonymously.
I’m calling Marla in then running. I curse myself for not having done so from day one instead of getting back in contact with Officer Cortez. But what’s done is done and I don’t have time to berate myself now. I’ll have an eleven-hour flight to do that. I take a breath and key in the tip-off number.
An automated system tells me to disclose the state, city, or area I am calling in relation to then asks me to hold for an operator.
A fizz of fear flutters through my veins when suddenly I’m connected to a human voice.
“Crime Stoppers USA, how can I help you?” a female voice intones. The immediate reality of a person on the end of the line, and the question, throws me for a second. I have to actively reassure myself that there is no possible way she could know who, or where, I am. Or what I’ve done.
“I’d like to report a crime,” I stutter.
“Okay, ma’am, and what’s the location you’re calling for?”
I tell her and she redirects my call. Another woman answers, her voice bright.
“Los Angeles Regional, how can I assist you?”
“I’d like to report—something.”
“Okay…” she prompts.
“There’s a body.” The words sound awkward and harsh. “It’s in the ravine in Griffith Park. Beneath the sign.”
“I see,” she says, her tone sober, careful. “And are you there at the scene?”
“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 me in 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.