The sun is an orange fireball parked on the horizon, and I have to steer with one hand while I shade my eyes with the other. My thoughts are engulfed by Margot; even in death, she consumes me. Liar. Psychopath. I can’t stop spitting that word out in anger, and I need to center myself, make a plan for what’s next.
Sticking to the older highway, careful to dodge any toll roads so that my license plate won’t be photographed, I’m wearing the silly Dallas Cowboys baseball hat again. My god; I’ve sunk so low. I feel like a fugitive, but a necessary one.
It’s nearly six thirty, so by the time I arrive in Dallas, all the abortionclinics will be closed for the day. But I want to get there ASAP so I can get an early start in the morning.
—
JUST BEFORE Ifled the motel, my fingers flew across the keypad of my iPhone, researching abortion laws in Texas. If you are seventeen, as Abby was, parental consent is required. This can be done in writing, but most of the private clinics I found online in Dallas—the ones I imagined Margot and Callie dragging Abby to—require that an adult be present as well. So right before I left the motel, I dug out that awful piece in the newspaper about Abby’s murder and stashed it in my bag. I took screenshots of both Margot’s and Callie’s Facebook profile pictures to bring to the clinics with me.
IT’S DARK BYthe time I reach Dallas, and even with all my time in Chicago, as I curl around the freeways, the glittering lights of the city feel dizzying after the pitch-black nights in Mapleton. My GPS directs me to the Westin Galleria, where I’m going to stay. My stomach grumbles as I approach the hotel, but I resist the urge to pull through a burger stand—I’m going to eat something decent. It’s been too long since I had something other than fast food and gas station snacks.
My flip-flops thwack against the mirror-like marble floors of the empty lobby, and I feel underdressed and self-conscious in my denim cutoffs and cap. Most other women who float through the lobby are wearing pastel summer dresses or elegant linen pants, their glossed lips plumped, no doubt, with Botox, their shiny hair bouncing behind their shoulders.
As I approach the front desk, I pull a credit card from my wallet instead of my debit card that’s linked to my checking account. Graham routinely scans our bank account online, but I’m the one who always opens the monthly paper statements from our credit cards, so this way, there’s less of a risk of him finding out I’m here.
Once in my room, which is on the ninth floor, I sweep back the curtains and take in the view of the Dallas skyline winking below. My god, it feels good to be out of Mapleton for a minute. Collapsing into a leather chair, I dial room service and order a sumptuous dinner. Caesar salad with grilled chicken. A side of steamed rice. A dish of vanilla Häagen-Dazs with chocolate syrup, and a pot of chamomile tea.
I take a scalding shower, slip into the plush hotel robe, and mindlessly bounce between HGTV and the National Geographic channel. It isn’t even ten o’clock when my eyelids begin to droop, heavy as concrete, and I feel myself slipping intosleep.
65
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
MY HIGHLANDER INCHESthrough the growing rush hour traffic. It’s three thirty in the afternoon, and I’ve spent the whole day racing from clinic to clinic—five in all—to no avail.
At the first three I visited, all in upscale neighborhoods, the women in reception would barely even talk to me. I know there must be privacy laws protecting the patients, so I changed my tack at the last one, trying to find a workaround. Not only did I show the photo of Abby in the paper to the lady behind the desk, I told her that Abby had been murdered and that I’m investigating a possible link to a clinic in the Dallas area. I gave a made-up name of a blog and pretended to be a journalist, and this caught the woman’s attention.
She studied the article, thin lips pursed, but shook her head. “I’m here every day. So if this Abby had come in, I’d remember her.”
I was going to call it a day after the five clinics, but even though traffic is threatening to grind my search to a halt, I guide the Highlander toward another tony neighborhood, called Highland Park. Enormous, gilded mansions rise from jewel-green lawns. It’s like Margot’s neighborhood on steroids. And not far from Turtle Creek, where Callie’s condo supposedly is.
After a few wrong turns, I locate the OB-GYN Group of Highland Park. It sits back on a high lawn; I creep along the hedge-lined drive toward the parking lot. Just as I’m killing the engine, my cell rings. Glancing over at it on the passenger seat, I see Flynn’s name flashing across the screen. Fuck. How the hell did he find out I left town? I’m certainly not going to answer it, not right now. It rolls to voice mail and I silence the ringer.
The white marble building looks less like a doctor’s office than a day spa. Stepping to the front door, I’m stymied when I find it’s locked. I’m about to turn away when I see a small gray box on the side of the building with an array of buttons. I press the one for main reception and, without any questioning, the tall glass doors swing open and I rush through them before they close behind me.
Sweat rings my underarms, and my hair is a hot mess under the ball cap, but I stride purposefully to the long bank of reception desks lining the far wall. A young woman with chestnut-colored hair and a dimpled smile greets me.
“Hello! Checking in for an appointment?”
I’m grateful that each receptionist has their own cubicle, so I lean in as close as is socially acceptable and drop my voice to soft and low.
“I’m actually looking for your help.” I stare straight into her downy eyes, hoping to reach her, human to human.
“Yes, of course.” Her already soft face softens even more, and it occurs to me that she most likely thinks I’m here for an abortion and need someone to talk with about it. “Let’s step into the greeting room,” she says, lifting a hand and motioning toward the right wall.
The room is cozy and softly lit. She clicks the door shut behind us and gestures for me to have a seat.
“How can I help? I’m Heidi, by the way.” She extends her slender hand and we shake.
I cut to the chase, deciding that being direct with Heidi is the best possible tactic. “I’m investigating the murder of a young woman. Abby Wilson. I’m a journalist. Abby lived a few hours from here, and I believe that she was murdered because she was pregnant.” My voice warbles as I speak this truth out loud.
Heidi’s eyes grow wide and she nods her head as if she’s eager to cooperate. I show her the newspaper clipping, careful to keep the section with my photo and name folded under.
“Oh, this is terrible. So sad.”
“Yes, it really is. Look, I have reason to believe she visited an abortion clinic, here in Dallas. So I’m making the rounds, trying to see if anybody remembers her.”
She squints and reads beyond the headline, studies Abby’s face more intently.
