Page 70 of Find Me in California

Liza’s door is open, and the lights have been left on. Aside from the floral bed covering, the room lacks any personal touches since Julia boxed and shipped most of Liza’s possessions to Matt. But there’s a lamp, a pair of reading glasses, and a cup of water on the nightstand. Along with a particular light-blue book.

Julia swipes it up, and a slip of stationery flutters to the floor. She flips it over to find a note.

Dear Matt,

I’m not surprised you didn’t come for me. I wouldn’t have either, not after the way I treated you. But there is something about your mother, and indirectly about yourself, you should know.

Julia tucks the note back into the diary before she’s tempted to finish. It isn’t hers to read, and if this secret is different from what Liza confessed last night, it certainly isn’t for Julia’s eyes.

Intent on going straight to the hospital, she calls the spa to cancel her clients for the day. She doesn’t know if Liza is conscious, but she can’t let her spend her last hours alone. Someone needs to be at her side.

Again, she tries to reach Matt. He doesn’t answer.

On her way toward the exit, she passes the dining room and spots her grandmother at breakfast with two other residents. Julia jogs over to say a quick hello.

“Morning, Mama Rose.” She touches her grandmother’s shoulder. “How’s breakfast?”

Mama Rose blinks at the scrambled eggs and toast on her plate. “It’s delicious.” She squints at the diary Julia holds and waves a fork at it. “That thing again. I told her I don’t want it back. Tell her to keep it. It’s hers.”

“This? Who did you say that to? Liza?”

“Of course. Who else would it be? She came to my room last night and tried to pawn it off on me. She wanted to apologize for some silliness, but I didn’t believe anything she said about me and wouldn’t hear any more of it. I told her she was wasting her breath. Did she talk you into giving it to me? She never could take no for an answer.”

“You—you spoke with Liza?” Julia sputters with disbelief.

“Ruby, who’s your friend?” the woman with tight salt-and-pepper curls seated across from Mama Rose asks.

“It’s me, Mrs. Zimmerman, Julia. Your massage therapist?” she adds to jostle the woman’s memory when she keeps shaking her head. Her phone vibrates, and she glances at the screen, hoping it’s Matt. A message displays from the spa that her appointments have been rescheduled.

She needs to get to the hospital.

“I’ll come back later,” she tells Mama Rose. She isn’t confident her grandmother will remember this conversation and they can pick up where they left off, but it’s worth a try.

CHAPTER 34

MATT

Matt opens his eyes, feeling a moment of panic when he doesn’t recognize where he is. The gold-speckled popcorn ceiling comes into focus, and he remembers he’s been staying at a motel. His mouth is drier than Death Valley, and his body feels like a massive paperweight pressing into the mattress. He drags his hands down his face and startles at the short beard. How long has it been since he shaved?

A sharp pain slashes across his skull, and he groans into his cupped palms. What time did they fall asleep last night? Or was it this morning when they finally crashed?

He reaches for Magnolia and finds cool sheets and an empty side of the bed.

He lifts his head. “Mags?”

She doesn’t answer.

He swings his legs off the bed and hobbles to the bathroom, nudges the door open. She isn’t there either, and from the looks of the bathroom, it hasn’t been used recently. Her hairbrush is no longer on the sink counter. He looks back in the room. Her clothes are missing and her purse is gone.

Did she leave him? No—he shakes his head in denial—she wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

Thinking she might be down at the pool, he peeks out the window at the overcast sky. He can’t tell if it’s morning or afternoon, but the pool deck is deserted.

She’ll be back.

The curtains fall into place, and he returns to the bathroom to take a leak, watching himself in the mirror. He looks like death warmed over, his beard that of a broke musician with bloodshot eyes and dark circles the size of tea bags. And he stinks. He sniffs his armpit, his nose crinkling. When did he last shower?

He splashes water on his face and debates returning to bed to wait for Magnolia when the time on the digital clock jumps out at him. It’s ten past noon. Who the hell knows what day it is.

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