“I doubt that.”
“Happens at work all the time.”
“I wouldn’t forget you. I didn’t forget you! I recognized you right away as the woman who tried to jump me outside my trailer.”
“I didn’t try to—!” she began before noting his grin. A car passed and he turned away, raising a hand to obscure his face. “It’s you who needs to be less recognizable. I have a cap in the car.”
He checked his watch. “We’ll get to L.A. around nine. What’s our plan—try your sister’s address?”
“Ourplan? You’re coming with me?” She’d assumed she’d drop him in Bel Air or Malibu, or wherever a guy like him lived, and that would be that for her fifteen-hour brush with fame.
He shrugged. “I got nothing better to do this weekend. And so far, it’s been a blast.”
Maggie appeared between them, making Lana jump. “Why, Lana, don’t you look nice with your hair down?” she said, handing back the phone. “Almost pretty! You sure I don’t detect a little something-something between you two? The way he looks at you… Call it a momma’s instinct.”
“Thank you for helping out today, Maggie,” Griffin said tightly, walking to Lana’s car. “Drive safe, now.”
Maggie held out her arms, following him. “Not even a hug?”
“Definitely not.”
Maggie seemed to have no intention of leaving it at that, so Lana stepped in front of her, halting her approach. “Thanks so much, Maggie. It was great to meet you.” She laid a friendly but firm hand on the older woman’s shoulder, and gently turned her to face the Chevy.
“Does this mean no more restraining order?” Maggie called.
“The order stands,” Griffin replied. “If I see you following us back to L.A., I’ll call the police.”
Lana stood guard until Maggie drove off, beeping and waving, a bereft Sweetie still in the back seat. Another car passed, and again Griffin turned away, shielding his face. A habitual move, like the scanning?
“Thanks,” he sa id, his posture relaxing. “Oh, hey, you have messages and things on your phone.”
“I forgot to take it off silent.” She unlocked it. Even after all these weeks with no contact from Vivien, every time she checked her phone, her belly fizzed with terrifying hope that she’d find a text. “Joined a cult, but they were weirdos, so I skipped out!” “Went volunteering in Africa, back now!” But no. A few automated texts from utility companies, and a message from Lana’s boss checking she was returning to work after the holiday weekend. Her stomach dived. She couldn’t afford not to, but reverting to regular programming would feel like an end to things. Like she was giving up on Vivien—again. “Shit—there’s a missed call from the Fitch Police Station. They left a voicemail.”
Another car approached. Griffin laid a hand on Lana’s waist, dipping his head as if they were having a private moment. “We should get out of here. I can drive, if you want to check the message.”
She found her baseball cap for him—a souvenir from a librarian’s convention—and settled into the passenger seat.
“Let’s see what this baby can do,” he said, starting the engine.
She laughed. It was a relief to be back to just the two of them. But it also felt … intimate. Like they were a unit now.
As Griffin drove, she played the message. “It’s the cop I spoke to.” She switched it to speakerphone, and Officer Sheng’s tinny voice filled the car. “…been continuing to inquire into your sister’s case. I discovered that she spoke with an LAPD detective before she disappeared. The detective is happy to brief you. It’s Detective Keisha Graham, and her number is… One second while I bring it up…”
Lana scrambled to find a pen and scribbled the number on a receipt. She probably couldn’t call in the middle of the night. She brought up Vivien’s social media and looked at the selfie with Griffin. Now that Lana knew him better, she read his expression not as anger but as impatient forbearance. She idly flicked through Vivien’s most recent photos, as she had a dozen times in the last month. She paused on another selfie: a smiling Vivien in what had to be her bedroom, going by the framedGone with the Windposter behind her—a birthday present from Lana, years ago. “Weekend vibes,” she’d captioned it. Lana hadn’t looked closely at the photo when Vivien had posted it, otherwise she might have realized it wasn’t the apartment her sister had shared with Julian. A book lay on a shelf by the bed—a library book, going by the stickers on the spine. Lana zoomed in on the title. It was partially obscured by the sticker.
“Giving up your…”
“Sorry, what?” Griffin said.
“This photo, in her bedroom. There’s a book by her bed. I can’t see the full title, but the Dewey decimal number looks like … 362.73.”
“Know what that is?”
“The three hundreds is social sciences. Three-hundred sixties is social problems and services.” Lana squeezed her eyes shut, the numbers appearing in front of her, leading her to the row,the shelf… “Three-hundred sixty-two, three-hundred sixty-two-point-seven… Holy shit!” She snapped her eyes open.
“What? What does that mean?”
“Adoption. That book title.Giving Up Your…It has to be ‘baby.’She’spregnant?”
