He’s not the only one back at work. Those who did go to the funeral are not heading to the bars to get drunk; they’re at the office. Marcus pulls into the spot next to him. They nod and walk toward the door. No chatting about the Warriors today.
When they get up to the third floor, to the sales department, the first person he sees is Abigail Wright. Technically, she is Ian’s assistant. But since she used to be in the sales department, she has been temporarily reassigned until they find a replacement for Bianca.
Abigail nods at him. Stunning is the only word to describe her. Born to be on the cover of magazines but ended up an executive assistant—something Wes and the rest of the team have never understood.
Wes takes a deep breath, trying to shove aside the pain in his head. He likes Abigail, has known her since he started at Siphon. She is brutally efficient, professional, and she never loses her cool.
Except for that day Ivy almost destroyed his office.
He sits down at his desk, feeling about ten years older than he did yesterday. Filled with aches and pains, mostly on the inside and completely self-inflicted. He picks up his phone and scrolls through the address book.
Stella.
They’ve exchanged a few texts, a couple of interactions on social media, but he hasn’t spoken to her in a while. Hasn’t seen her in forever. Wes takes a deep breath and calls before he loses his nerve. She answers on the second ring.
“A middle-of-the-day call? This can’t be good,” she says.
“It isn’t.”
Stella sighs. He hears a door close. “You’re lucky I have a few minutes. I’m a busy woman.”
“I know that, too.” He stalls a little, trying to decide how much to tell her. “But maybe Ivy has gone too far this time.”
He can almost hear her eyebrows rise. “You’ve got my attention. Speak.”
Wes tells her the story. The stalking Ivy faked, calling the police, the detective showing up at his office. All the result of trying to get his attention. He is careful to sidestep around the real reason Karen is still questioning him. Not even Stella knows about that.
“Most people would avoid a woman who calls the police on them,” she says, “but what did you do?”
He doesn’t answer.
She hits him with a barrage of curse words. No one is more creative than Stella when it comes to swearing. He can imagine her sitting at her desk, feet up, her brown hair swinging wildly as she becomes more and more animated. More and more wound up. The only thing he can do is wait it out.
Finally spent, Stella comes to the inevitable conclusion. “But you, being you, went to Ivy. You had sex, blah blah blah. And where are you now with her?”
“Back together.”
No sigh. No fist banged on her desk. No more curse words. Her silence is filled with disappointment, and he feels it.
“Yeah,” he says.
Still nothing from Stella. Maybe she is staring out the window. Or looking at her computer screen, glancing through emails, because she’s done with him. Perhaps she’s burying her head in her hands, cursing the gods for putting her in this position. Because it must be terrible. He knows that, and it’s why he doesn’t call her very often. Today is a rare exception.
“I’m not an idiot,” Stella says.
“Of course you aren’t. That’s why I call you.”
“In fact, I’m a really smart person,” Stella says. “I could join Mensa if I wanted to. Hell, I could probably run Mensa.”
“I know.”
“But what I still don’t understand,” she says, “is how I ended up with such a stupid brother.”
29
Karen walks into her house, drops her bag, and kicks off her shoes. Her mug from this morning is still on the table, dishes from last night in the sink. She grabs a Monster Energy drink and a plate of leftovers before heading into her office. Karen still has to remind herself to call it that.
Sometimes, she sees the room the way it used to be. Starting with the crib and moving all the way up to the messy, dark room of a teenager. Then, finally, the empty room of a child who no longer lives with his mother. Jack is all grown up now and living his life in Southern California, but signs of him are everywhere.
The closet doors are scratched on the edges, where he used to fling them open and slam them closed. There’s a dark spot on the wall, vaguely in the shape of a shoe, which he claimed to know nothing about. Tiny droplets of paint form a ring around where his desk used to be, left over from painting model cars and airplanes.
She didn’t get rid of any of it, only the furniture. His old bed, dresser, and nightstand are gone, replaced with a desk, a comfortable chair, filing cabinets, and, on the wall, a large corkboard, similar to the ones they used at the station. Photos are tacked to it, along with names.
Ivy is in the center.
The picture was printed from her social media. Ivy is outside, standing in front of a beautiful view of tree-covered mountains. Big smile, no makeup, hair blowing in the wind. The photo is from a couple months ago, but she could be mistaken for a college student.
Karen sits down at her desk. The second shift, she calls it. She fires up the computer and pulls up Check This on her phone. One to-do list is never enough, and the organizational app helps her keep everything straight.
She gets to work on Ivy’s case, first checking the social media accounts for both her and Wes. It’s really too bad he doesn’t post more often. He does make comments on other posts, though. Karen checks every account he follows and finds a new one from this morning. The official Siphon account posted a memorial for Tanner, and Wes commented on it.
RIP
Dozens of employees posted similar comments, along with a few that said Justice for Bianca. A little early for that, given that Bianca hasn’t been arrested.
Next she goes through the 911 call list from the night Ivy’s car was supposedly stolen. Perhaps the night it was in an accident.
Karen is betting it was.
Call it her detective’s intuition. Call it a sixth sense. Or maybe Karen just knows when something is off because she’s seen it so many times before. In this case, it started the day she met Ivy.
Ivy had walked into the police station looking like she had just come from work. Navy slacks, ivory blouse, understated jewelry. She carried a small shopping bag from Ulta, but there was no makeup in it. Just the notes, photos, and the box of truffles.
“I’ve received these over the past few weeks,” Ivy said, taking out each item one by one. A few were in plastic bags. “I didn’t think to be careful with anything at first, not until it continued.”
“Where were these left?”
“On my car. Mostly when it was parked outside my apartment building, but once when it was at a shopping center,” she said. “At first, I thought it was just some kind of . . . admirer, I guess? Because the notes aren’t threatening. I mean, they just say, ‘You’re beautiful,’ or ‘You’re so amazing.’？” Ivy pauses to pull out the Ziploc bag of photos. “Then I got these.”
Karen put on gloves and took the pictures out. Three of them, all taken from a distance when Ivy was somewhere in public. Walking to her car, into a restaurant, and leaving a bar.
“And the following day, I got these.” When Ivy pointed to the box of truffles, her hand trembled.