19

CASEY

I check my look twice before I leave my motel, making certain that while I’m watching Candace Price, she won’t recognize me. My black hair is pinned up close to my head, and I cake on the eyeliner and smoky eye shadow.

I have no trouble finding her house. A lot of the houses in Dallas are big, but this one qualifies as a mansion. From what I can tell about her recent real estate sales, she doesn’t make that kind of money.

It’s just before seven a.m. when I park, sip my Starbucks and eat my muffin, and watch for her to come out. At around eight, an older man drives up and parks at the curb in front of her house. He gets out and hobbles up to her door. She lets him in and he stays for an hour or more.

While I’m waiting, I take a stroll on the sidewalk like a neighbor getting exercise, and as I pass his Pontiac Bonneville, I see a stack of mail on the dashboard. I slow enough to get the name on the address. Morris Price. He must be her father. I make a mental note of his address, then go back to my car and look him up. He’s a retired teacher who lives in a neighborhood a few miles from here. A Google Earth search shows that his house is much more modest than hers, so she must not have inherited her money, at least from that side of her family.

At around nine, she comes out with him, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top. Her platinum-blonde hair is cut like Marilyn Monroe’s. She walks her father to the Bonneville, then gets into her own car and leaves.

I follow her to a Planet Fitness and watch her go in. She has the body of a model, so I’m guessing she works out a lot. I wait in the car, reading her Facebook page on my phone and taking down notes. When she comes out an hour later, she heads back home. Another hour passes, then she comes out, showered, her hair looking like she’s been to the hairdresser. She’s wearing a maxi dress and high heels. I expect her to go to her real estate office, but instead she drives downtown to Neiman Marcus and parks in the garage.

I pull into a vacant space about twenty cars down from her. I almost lose her, but I catch up to her as she’s going into the store. I step into the air-conditioning and pretend to look at a dress. She goes to the handbags, peruses each one, takes a few pictures of them with her phone.

I pretend that I’m browsing as she goes to the women’s section and holds up a few outfits as she gazes into the mirror. She takes their pictures too.

Did she send the pictures to friends and ask their opinions? Finally she makes some decisions. She chooses an expensive handbag, pays for it, then goes back to buy all of the outfits she photographed. I guess she’s spent at least a couple thousand dollars, if not more.

She goes back to her Mercedes and I head to my car, adjusting my sunglasses, looking at my phone as I pass her so she doesn’t notice my face. I follow her to her office, then sit outside and watch for her for the next couple of hours.

She comes out finally and drives off. I follow her until she parks in front of a house that’s for sale. Another car drives up. I can’t stop, so I pass by the house as they go in.

The day creeps by slowly as I tail her, and several times I almost give up and go home. She hasn’t done anything that seems Keegan-related. As it’s getting dark, she heads to a club.

I’m not in the mood for a place like that, but I decide to follow her in and get something to eat. The place is hopping since it’s happy hour. I ask for a seat at the bar and order a Diet Coke and an appetizer. There’s a mirror behind the bar, so I watch her meeting some girlfriends at a tall table.

Their laughter is loud enough to be heard throughout the club. They order a round of drinks and some food.

I’m trying to hear what they’re saying when a man sits down next to me. “You waiting for someone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’ve been here a while. You haven’t been stood up, have you?”

I want to ignore him, but when I glance back in the mirror, I see Candace coming to the bar, right toward me. I turn to the man, smiling. “He’s not late. I got here early.”

“I’m Hamlin,” he says.

“Miranda.”

“You’re dry. What are you drinking?”

She’s standing right behind me now, leaning so close I can smell her perfume. The bartender asks her what she needs. “Can we get a round of shots for my table over there?” she asks in a southern lilt. “There are five of us.”

He goes to pour them. I shake my thoughts back to the man next to me and keep my hand over the left side of my face so she won’t see it in the mirror. “What did you ask?”

“Your drink. Want another one? What is it?”

Distracted, I look at my drink as if I can’t remember what it is.

“You don’t know what you’re drinking?”

I look at him and laugh, as if I’ve had a brain slip. “I’m sorry. It’s Diet Coke. I don’t want another one.”

When the bartender brings Candace the tray of shots, she takes the plate and clomps in those heels back to her table. My mind checks out and I don’t hear another thing the man is saying.

Finally, I give up. I’m sick of this. Keegan is nowhere in sight, and this is a waste of time. I’ll try again tomorrow.

I watch Candace for most of the weekend, and there doesn’t seem to be a husband or boyfriend around. She comes and goes in her shiny new Mercedes, zipping around town like she’s in the Million Dollar Club.

There’s no sign of Keegan. I don’t even know for sure if he’s still in her life.

After a while, I realize that this could take some time. I need to stay in Dallas for a while, so I’m going to have to find a cheaper place to live and get some kind of job.

I remember the Help Wanted sign in Cole Whittington’s family’s business, and the truth is, I’m curious about his situation. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to apply for that job.

Monday morning I drive over there and go inside. His mother is at the front desk again. “Hey, sweetie,” she says in a comfortable drawl. “You’re back. Don’t tell me you found another Bible.”

I laugh. “No, I was just . . . I’m looking for a job, and the other day I noticed you were hiring. I wondered what you’re looking for.”

Cole walks in, and he recognizes me and comes to the desk. “Hey . . . Miranda, right?”

“Yes, Miranda Henley,” I say.

“Miranda was just asking about the job,” his mother says.

Cole takes over. “Well, we need help packaging and shipping our orders.”

“What are the qualifications?”

He hesitates. “Warm bodies who show up on time every day.”

“I can do that. I’m a good worker and people say I’m reliable.”

“I think we can trust her,” he tells his mother. “She found my Bible after I lost it, and she made the effort to bring it back.”

“It’s a family business, darlin’,” his mother says, “and we have about twenty other employees. We’re always looking for more. You available to start tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be here.”

I fill out some paperwork with my new name and social security number. I tell them I’ll have to give them my address later, because I’m just moving into a new apartment and don’t have the address yet. That’ll give me time to get one.

Maybe I can get to know Cole and somehow convince him that suicide is not the way to go. Or at the very least, if he still seems bent on going through with his plan, maybe I’ll let his family know so they can intervene.

Having this job will at least mean that I don’t have to keep leeching from my cash while I’m watching Candace Price.

It will be a nice distraction.