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“For you, always,” Derrick said.
“Where are you? You sound like you just ran a marathon.”
“I’m at the gym. Didn’t hear you call before. What’s up?”
“Are you ready?” Gia teased.
“More than ready! What’s going on?”
“So, Lorrainne Mitchell isn’t Emily.”
“You sure? She seems—”
“Right, but—there’s more.” Gia watched as taillights sped by in the opposite direction, a big red blur filling her field of vision. “I went to Pasadena today—to talk to her. Lorrainne. She’s not Emily. She’s from Los Angeles originally. But there’s another woman—with her same name and birthday whowasborn in Burbank. They got each other’s mail for years and became friends-slash-pen-pals. Lorrainne knows where our Emily is.”
“That’s amazing!” Derrick said, the clang of iron landing on a hard surface happening in the background.
“Well, it’s half amazing. There’s even more.”
“Okay?”
“Lorrainne said they’ve stayed in touch. Used to get together every summer, and now they send each other birthday cards, the occasional letter. Emily never married—Lorrainne didn’t know of any relationships, as a matter of fact. And—this is the bummer. Emily has Alzheimer’s. She’s in a memory care facility in Riverside. Her family put her there a few years ago. So, she’s alive—probably—but is she coherent? We don’t know.”
“Shit. Talk about dashed hopes. I thought you found her.”
“Well, I think we have, thanks to Roxi’s superb driving skills. There’s no way the Bobbsey Twins were going to help, but they kind of did. They invited her to the competition.” Gia’d already told him about the inquisition from Sisters A and B. He understood the “you must want to meet my other gay friend” trope.
“Gia, what the hell? Why is Roxi even there?”
“I’ll explain later,” she whispered. There was no point—Roxi was sitting less than a foot away. She could hear a whisper.
“Anyway, I have the name of the facility and its address on a piece of paper that I’m holding right now.” Gia looked at the ripped sheet of spiral notebook paper, torn from Lorrainne’s daily journal. “We know where Emily is. Or was. The question is—what do we do about it?”
Roxi drove in silence, hands on ten and two, and pretended not to eavesdrop. Every so often, the voice in her phone barked an order to take an exit. Turn right or left, repeating itself until she followed the directions. Without fanfare, she parallel parked the Mini on a busy street that didn’t look at all like anything Gia’d seen in Newport Beach. And they hadn’t been driving long enough to be back to the hotel.
“Hang on. I need one second.” Gia covered the phone’s microphone with her hand. “Rox, where are we?”
“I told you we should go to The Abbey sometime. Now’s the time.” Roxi shifted the Mini into park and tilted the rearview mirror toward her face, checking the little makeup she wore. She’d found a parking spot on Melrose Avenue—steps from the bar. It was a sign.
“But I really shouldn’t—”
“It’s just a quick stop,chica. We won’t stay long.”
If Gia knew anything, it was Roxi was going to do what Roxi was going to do. They were going to a bar, like it or not. “Derrick, sorry. I need to go. But can we strategize tomorrow? I’ll be done climbing at three. Call you then?”
“Sure. And G?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. Is a bar a good idea?” He’d heard.
“Don’t worry, I will. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Yes, and text me when you get to your hotel tonight, please. I want to know you’re safe.”
“I will. Get back to your weights. ‘Night.”
Roxi was feeding the meter when Gia hung up, a huge grin on her face and a bounce in her step. Gia slid onto the sidewalk, careful not to scrape the car door over an extra-high curb, and gently shut it. “We’re really doing this?”
