She snapped her fingers. “Yeah. That’s it. Angry Elephant. I think he must have connections there or something.”
So maybe that was why the man was always in the background of the photos with my mom and dad. He was connected to the studio Mom worked for. But he was also Luna’s accomplice—of that, I was positive. Which could only mean one thing.
I had to go to Vegas.
16
LAS VEGAS WAS a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Brentwood. That meant four and a half hours of either trying to entertain myself, or of trying to get Mr. Personality to entertain me. The old Nikki would have preferred to entertain herself a thousand times over spending that length of time trapped in a confined space with sunshine-yellow Detective Martinez.
So I had no real explanation for why I asked him to go with me.
“Why?” He was already irritated that I’d dragged him to igNight and had left him inside wondering where I’d gone while I went outside to talk with Blue. Suggesting an impromptu road trip only served to exacerbate his bad mood. Fortunately, I was really good with exacerbation.
“The guy who Luna escaped Tesori Antico with is connected to a film studio out there.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Wait, I thought you said the guy at Pear Magic was the guy who drove Luna away that night.”
“Same guy.” He gave his head a quick shake, confused. “Look, it’s a long story, and I’ll have four hours to tell it to you. You in?”
“I just got back to work. I can’t ask for time off to run to Vegas.”
“Good point,” I said. “That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s only four hours.”
I really meant that, but I wasn’t at all upset when he gave a long sigh and smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “When do you want to leave?”
I smiled, victorious. “Tomorrow morning?”
“How about afternoon?”
“Whatever works.”
WE MET AT the police station. He tossed a backpack into the trunk of my car and got in.
“I’m driving?” I asked.
“It’s your trip,” he said. “I would hate to deprive you of the pleasure of taking charge.”
“I know when I’m being manipulated. Fine. I’ll drive. I’ve got gas. I’m rested. I’m sick of your crappy driving anyway.”
He slid down in the seat, rested his head on the seat back, and closed his eyes. “You keep telling yourself that.”
We drove for a few minutes—long enough to get on I-15—before I broke the silence. “Did you have a hard time getting away?”
He shook his head but didn’t open his eyes. “I told them I was having some migraines and needed to take a few more days to rest.”
“Good one.”
He turned his head slightly and opened one eye. “It was the truth.”
“Oh.”
He slept, his mouth slightly open, the back of his hair getting messed up. It was the sleep of someone who hadn’t been getting much. I knew the headaches were bad, but maybe I didn’t know how frequent they were, or what other effects he was still feeling from the accident. Maybe he was sore, tired. Maybe the confusion and forgetfulness bothered him more than I realized.
I turned on the radio but kept the volume low. It was like I was driving alone after all. But not. There was something about Chris’s presence in the car that centered me. The car felt yellow and a color I’d once heard described as Alice blue. So pale it was more a hint or feeling of blue than actual blueness. The color of safety.
I used to see that color when I was alone in a room with Dad.
Not anymore.
He finally woke up, and we stopped in Beacon Station to devour a late lunch—cheeseburgers at a bustling little gas station. We sat on a bench, enjoying the breeze while we let grease run down our arms and ketchup dot our fingertips.
After we were finished, Chris wadded up his napkin and tossed it at a garbage can. It bounced off the side and rolled into the parking lot. He scowled. I retrieved the napkin and threw it away for him.
“I kind of remember,” he said, the wind nearly whisking away the words before they were out of his mouth.
I tried not to look as excited by this news as I felt. If I’d learned one thing, it was that pressure didn’t tend to put him in a very good place these days. “Yeah?” Disinterested Nikki picked at a splintered piece of wood on the bench seat.
He nodded. “Rebecca. And Sam. The kid from the community center? She’s his mom.”
“So that’s where you knew that kid from. You obviously knew Rebecca. And it makes sense that Heriberto would go to her house. Maybe he’s, like, her husband, and Sam’s their kid. Or something.” We both knew that wasn’t true. We’d seen the exchanges between Heriberto and the boys. Sam was no stranger to Heriberto, but he definitely wasn’t his kid. If anything, he appeared to be a colleague. “Or maybe he’s—”
“Sam is Rebecca’s son,” Chris said, interrupting me. “That’s all I know for sure.”
“And how do you know that?”
He rubbed his forehead; I wondered if another headache was coming on. “I think I used to date her.”
My eyes grew wide. “You remember dating her?”
“Not really.” He squinted, rubbed harder. “Maybe. I mean, I think so, sure. It’s still fuzzy. I looked her up. I recognized her face. I know it goes with that kid, Sam. And when I saw her, I had a feeling that I knew her. Knew her, knew her.” He gave me an embarrassed glance. “It’s like it’s on the tip of my tongue. Same feeling.”
“Were you dating her, like, recently?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like, since I’ve known you?”
“I don’t know, Nikki.” Irritation. “How am I supposed to know what I’m not remembering and from when? Could have been six months ago or it could have been six years ago. But for some reason I think it was a long time ago.”
“It’ll come to you,” I said. But there was a part of me that hoped it didn’t. And that sincerely pissed me off, that I suddenly didn’t want him remembering past girlfriends, because why, exactly?
Because of the magenta that you are firmly ignoring, Nikki. The magenta that shines the brightest in that rainbow you keep feeling every time he touches you.
He slurped his soda. “I guess.”
I dangled the car key in front of Chris’s face. “My turn to sleep.”
He took the key, reluctantly.
“Don’t look so butt-hurt about it. You can listen to your riveting talk radio for company.”
I popped open the trunk and rummaged around in the junk until I found an old hoodie. I slipped it over my shirt, and when I got in the front seat, I promptly pulled it so far over my head it was obscuring my eyes. If there was more to the Mystery Girlfriend conversation, I didn’t want to be part of it.
CHRIS SHOOK ME awake when we got to the hotel. I was completely out and for a minute, I was totally confused. Where was I and why was I here with Chris? But then I recognized the building we were in front of, and it all came back to me.
“The Luxor?” I asked, groggy, as I looked up at the pyramid I’d seen a million times on TV but never in person. “I can’t afford this place.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Chris mumbled, unbuckling his seat belt. “I’ve got it taken care of.”
I pulled myself to sitting. I was sweaty inside my hoodie. I battled with it to get it off. “I’m not going to let you pay for my hotel. Just take me to a cheap motel off the strip or something.”
“It’s one night,” he said. “And I’m not staying in a cheap hotel off the strip. And you’re not staying in a hotel I’m not staying in.” I started to say more, but he gave me a look. “I got two rooms, okay?”
I didn’t know how to argue with that. Plus, there was the tiniest bit of me that was excited about getting to stay in a really nice hotel in Vegas. This was the kind of place Peyton would have stayed in. It was the kind of place Dru was known to stay in. Somehow I felt closer to them, even if I had no idea if they’d ever actually walked the halls of the Luxor.
We checked in and went to our rooms, our footsteps soft on the carpet. I felt self-conscious about my backpack, the hole in the knee of my jeans, my ratty sleep-hair.