Chapter 17
Chloe was right. Neither of Dottie’s old contacts work.
The cell number is out of service. The email address bounces back.
Googling “Dorothy Ross Florida” returns dozens, maybe hundreds of possibilities, many of them senior citizens.
“Dorothy” does kind of sound like an old lady. Maybe it’s a family name.
What I need is access to LexisNexis. That’s the database of personal information for just about anyone in the whole country, used by places like news organizations and law firms to track people down.
It pulls from all kinds of records—court filings, utility bills, addresses on file with the post office—to spit back the details of where someone has lived and how they can be found.
Unless someone is long dead or in witness protection, searching for them in Lexis should turn up a result.
I bet Ian has access to it at the EPA, but there’s no way I can bring him into this. Everything would be so much easier if he would just get on my goddamn side. Think, Margo. This is a solvable problem. And literally everything is on the line.
No Dottie. No blackmail.
No blackmail. No house.
No house. I will motherfucking die.
In an instant, the answer floods my brain like dopamine. I’ve always performed well under pressure.
I grab my phone off my desk—quickly adding a thumbs-up emoji to a Slack from Jordana with some suggested guests for the media dinner—then fire off a text: Hey, are you downtown today? Can I buy you lunch to say thank you for helping with the IP address?
It only takes Erika a minute to write back: K Street Tavern at 1?
The Tavern is a total dive, but it’s sentimental. In our twenties, Erika and I spent countless happy hours here that devolved into sloppy all-nighters, especially on karaoke Wednesdays. We’d often be back by noon the next day to soak up our bad decisions with a greasy lunch.
She’s already stationed at one of the red vinyl booths, her laptop open, when I arrive. She’s striking, even amid these dingy environs. What must it be like, to go through life looking like that?
“Seriously? They have Wi-Fi at the Tavern now?” I say, as I approach. “Is nothing sacred?”
Erika laughs. “You look awesome. Love that dress.” She gets up to hug me. “And I know what you mean, but at least the seats are all still cracked and half the light bulbs are out.”
“True enough. God, I can’t remember the last time we were here together.”
“I know, kinda fun, right? My team still does happy hours here sometimes, but it’s just not the same. Man, how did we get so old?”
I wish I knew the answer to that one. Time really is a motherfucker—and it has never once been on my side.
I have been racing against something, or toward something for as long as I can remember.
Racing to grow up and get away. Racing against deadlines.
Racing to make enough money. To start a family.
To find the house. To feel like I’ve finally made it.
To feel like I can finally just live. Erika and I might be the same age, but she’s already won her race.
She’s been right on time for every single thing.
It’s funny, I probably thought I was ahead of her when I started dating Ian.
We were here the first time he and Erika met.
Wednesday karaoke, but a “celebrity” edition.
I came as Britney Spears, in a blond wig and too-tight skirt, and tried way too hard to look sexy for him during my rendition of “Toxic.” Erika did a whole retro thing, teased her hair into oblivion to sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” as Nancy Sinatra.
It didn’t matter how much midriff I was showing, her performance was still way hotter than mine.
Ian didn’t seem to notice, though. He was all over me that night.
And he was great with my work friends, asking sincere questions about the stories they were pursuing and how they ended up at the Post, doing his charming, smiling-from-the-eyes thing.
They all loved him, Erika especially. “He’s perfect,” she’d said, when the two of us made a trip to the bar for a round of Red Bull–and–vodkas. “Does he have any single friends?”
Yeah, that night, I’m sure I thought I was finally winning.
Our server approaches now, with two red plastic baskets of grilled cheese and french fries, our go-to hangover cure from back in the day.
“It’s really good to see you without the guys around,” Erika says, before taking a bite of melty American between oily white bread. “They can be so competitive with each other. It’s ridiculous.”
“Oh my God, I know.” I pause to dab some grease from the corner of my mouth. “I’m really sorry about Ian the other night. He gets way too defensive. I’m sure Heath thought he was being an ass.”
She shakes her head in protest, until she finishes chewing. “You have nothing to apologize for. I let Heath have it on the ride home. He was totally provoking Ian, as if you guys don’t have enough to stress about. I still can’t believe you haven’t found a place yet.”
There it is—the pity. It stings, but it’s also kind of nice to feel seen. Because she’s not wrong.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s been … a lot.”
“How are you two doing with it? I think I would kill Heath if we were in a one-bedroom.”
I’m too proud to tell her the whole truth—that I don’t like my husband right now; in fact, I may hate him. But a little bit of venting won’t hurt …
“Honestly? He’s starting to drive me crazy,” I say.
“The smell of his aftershave gives me a headache. And this morning, when I came out of the bedroom, he was on the couch in the same fucking gym shorts and ripped-up navy UVA sweatshirt that he wears almost every single day, and I swear to God, for a second? I couldn’t even see him.
He was just a big navy-blue blob, sweating onto my sofa.
I am just so sick of looking at that damn sweatshirt, you know? ”
Erika, her eyes wide, nods sympathetically, but I can tell she’s trying to suppress a smile. We both lose it at the same time. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. I needed this.
“That sounds awful. Really,” she says, wiping away tears. “But at least you have the tight quarters as an excuse. Heath and I live in four thousand square feet and he still annoys the shit out of me half the time.”
I don’t know if she’s only saying that to make me feel better, but it does.
“Don’t kill all my hope,” I say, still catching my breath. “I’m counting on liking my husband again once we move.”
“Oh, you will,” she says. “You guys have always been so great together.”
She’s right. The last year and a half may have been terrible, but every couple has their ups and downs.
And we’re almost through it—I can feel it.
Dottie is the key. And people don’t just up and disappear.
I know I can find her. I know she can get us into the house.
And once that happens, everything will be fine. No one could be unhappy there.
“How’s the decorating with Zoe Estelle coming?” I ask, suddenly feeling charitable.
“She’s amazing. Seriously, she’s so creative, I would never be able to come up with half the stuff she does.” Erika pauses to check her phone. “She was just over yesterday showing me some fabric swatches for the drapes in the living room, and you’ll never guess the crazy story she told me.”
“What?”
“Do you remember the Murder Mansion? From, gosh, it must’ve been six or seven years ago?”
“Wow, I’d forgotten all about that. But yeah, that was a huge story.”
“I know. So huge. She’s done a ton of houses in our neighborhood, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. But she told me she redid the kitchen there.”
“Shut up.”
“For real. Right before those poor people got killed. She said they were the nicest clients.”
“Ugh, that’s so sad. I don’t think I realized that happened so close to you.”
“Yeah,” Erika says, nodding. “They only lived a street over.”
We chew in silence for a minute, polishing off our grilled cheeses.
“So,” Erika breaks in, “are you going to tell me what the deal was with the IP address stuff?”
“That perfectly normal request?” I say, laughing. “Yeah, it was sort of a big deal that it came from campus, so thank you again. Off the record, we’d already heard a rumor about some possible harassment with a student there.”
“Really? That’s terrible.”
“I’m pretty sure your email came from her, too—Dorothy Ross. We found some other stuff she’d posted under her real name on Reddit, though she didn’t identify the professor she was accusing there.”
“Wait, Dorothy? Like, a girl?”
“Yeah, a twist, right? Which means it might all be bullshit. Or Bradshaw isn’t as gay as you thought.”
“Huh. That’s so odd. I know he had a husband,” she says.
I shrug. “Like I said, it might be nothing. We’re just doing our homework.”
“But why do you care so much?” Erika presses. “He’s just an investor in a restaurant that you may or may not take as a client?”
“I really can’t get too far into the details—Jordana would kill me if she knew I was telling any of this at all to a reporter—but we had a disaster with another new client last year.
Sank a ton of money into a whole campaign for them, only to find out there was a similar problem with one of their backers and the woman in that case was threatening a lawsuit.
We had to take a bath on the campaign and walk away before they even opened.
So now we try to be a lot more careful on the front end. ”
“I guess that makes sense,” Erika says slowly.
“My problem now is I can’t find Dorothy to confirm any of this,” I say, beginning to drop the breadcrumbs that will lead Erika to do what I want.
“These guys would be a big get for us—a few of the other partners have some really hot restaurants in other cities that you would probably recognize. So we need to be pretty confident that we’re dealing with something real before we throw in the towel, you know? ”
“What do you mean you can’t find her?”