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Something flashes across his gaze, but it’s gone before I can read it.
“No. I spoke to some contacts, but . . . nothing.”
Fuck.
Tears burn in the corners of my eyes, but I shove them away before he can see them and turn back to the computer.
“Well, I guess I’ll get started on this. There’s no telling how long it’ll take.”
“Hannah,” he murmurs, though there’s something conflicting in his voice. A guilt that wasn’t there before. “I’ll keep looking. I’ve got a couple other people to talk to.”
“Okay,” I nod, my voice higher than usual.
He waits for a moment as if he’s going to say something else, but eventually, he just gets up and heads toward the door.
“I’ll move the computer Monday. We’re almost done for the day, so why don’t you go home.”
“It’s only four,” I point out and he shrugs, not looking at me.
“And it’s hot.” He starts to walk away but stops at the door. “Have a good weekend, Hannah.”
I almost smile, despite everything.
That’s the nicest he’s been to me since I started.
“Have a good weekend, Mason.”
My house is pink.
Like Barbie went manic and redecorated on a Tuesday pink.
The outside is pink. The linoleum floors in the kitchen and bath? Pink sparkles. The couch that came with the house? You guessed it. Pink. There was even some custom pink toilet paper that I put away when I moved in.
Normally I wouldn’t complain. I was fortunate to find a place this cheap in a moderately decent neighborhood in LA and that’s saying something. Most of the places I looked at were either overpriced cardboard boxes or felt like at any moment, I was going to find some creep living in the walls.
I just feel anything but cheerful tonight, and the pink makes me feel like I have to be.
Like one of Mom’s parties.
I still haven’t finished unpacking, but if Mason really is looking into Missy’s disappearance, I may not have to. If I can find Missy, I can go home, or . . . something. I still haven’t decided.
To be honest, the prospect of coming back to LA freaking petrified me. The people aren’t the same here. They’re more . . . in your face. Everyone’s trying to make something of themselves, as opposed to back in Sacramento that’s full of the elderly and politicians.
I’m well and truly on my own for the first time in my entire life.
It’s liberating, but . . . it’s also fucking terrifying.
Imagine being murdered and the police show up at your house, only for it to be some bubblegum pink nightmare dollhouse?
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being cynical.
This is the part where I always come up short in my irrational plan to take the law into my own hands.
I thought I had it all figured out. My Barbie’s dream house Airbnb is rented under a false name—not hard to do. My mother thinks I’m in Africa on a mission trip for her charity—something I’ve done before. Even Michael, mybestfriend, doesn’t know I’m here.
I don’t even know where Missy’s been living the last two years and LA isn’t exactly a small town. I can’t just ask the neighbor if they’ve seen a woman who looks like me at the local 7-Eleven. I have no real concrete evidence to go by and that’s not exactly conducive to completing my mission.
Which is . . . I don’t really know.
