EIGHT

NEVADA.

When most people think of Nevada, certain things come to mind. Sin City, twinkling in the desert like a sparkly tumor, malignant with its hunger to take all you’ve got. Sure, it’s hungry, but it’s like a cockroach, it’s going to outlast us all because of its innate resilience—because nothing should be sustainable in such a harsh environment. If the water dried up for good, how long would it last?

And yet the show goes on decades after its prime, only now slathered in bronzer, with a few extra pounds changing the silhouette of its sequined jumpsuit into something the girls don’t scream over anymore, but that people will still overpay to see.

Some cities in America are designed to trap as many tourists as they can, shamelessly, unapologetically, effectively. But some take care of their marks better than others, recognizing the symbiosis needed to survive, so they protect their livelihoods. I’ve only gone to Vegas once—and that was enough for me. I saw a few concerts, lost some money, and fucked Jack in a fancy hotel with windows that didn’t open.

The whole place felt like it was starving. You walk down the strip trying to dodge the barkers who try to herd you into their place, handing you seventeen hundred flyers you don’t want. You don’t want to look like a tourist, but the place is designed to be overwhelming, bombarding the senses into going along with whatever they’re trying to sell you. The glittering lies are there to entertain you and cover up the ugly truth: The sequins hide the flaws like a past-her-prime stripper coating her stretch marks with extra body glitter.

No eye contact is best.

But even dining out is brutal if you don’t go to five-star fancy places. Buffets rule the world there to take the sting out of the cost of everything else. Who the fuck ever needs that much food? And yet I’m sure people would have gladly moved their chairs directly to the buffet tables and devoured until they made themselves sick, trying to make up for their losses at the craps table.

Balance doesn’t work that way. Some losses can’t be equaled in free breakfast sausages, but people are damn sure going to try.

It revolted me after a short amount of time.

I drive through it now, trying to see the beauty of the place, and the lights are pretty, but remind me of those predators that lurk in the depths of the ocean, using their shiny bioluminescence to lure in their prey. The prey gets a show, the predator gets a free dinner. It’s malevolent in the most beautiful way. It’s nature at her most gorgeously savage. Innovative.

Inana moved here about a year and a half before she died, and while she lived with a showgirl kind of quality, I can’t see her loving it for long. She was all about truth and limits, and I don’t think she’d have been able to get past the rot beneath the slick paint job.

The sheer opportunity for decadence was probably what lured Inana here in the first place. In places like this you can get away with more because it’s expected. Locals play up legends and myths, dressing bigger, better, bolder for the tourists—the ones trying to scam you do, anyway.

The ones trying to make a buck aren’t the only ones who make wildness possible. Because of the tourism, because of the number of people moving there to try to make it big in show business, you’ve got a huge rotating population. Other cities, too. LA, New York, and New Orleans have this transience to them that can make every day feel new—and also temporary, like things won’t last.

That’s as good or bad as you make it. Vegas has a short memory and lets you be as freaky as you want to be in ways you couldn’t get away with in other cities. It can take you in and suck the marrow from your bones, leaving you haggard and disillusioned before your time. Cities like that won’t remember your name, but they’ll remember your flavor—has-been, never-was, model-actress, hooker-waitress. You taste just like the pretty little things it devoured yesterday.

But there’s something worse lurking in Nevada than past-their-prime performers and predatory pushers. Harder than the city itself that fucks you without remembering your name. Something no one’s talking about.

Asbestos.

Once used for soundproofing and insulation, among other things, we abandoned it and banned it when we realized it was literally killing people who breathed it in. But, you know—slowly. Anyway, it’s dangerous as hell.

What’s this got to do with Nevada? Turns out, the whole place is lousy with naturally occurring asbestos, blowing in the wind like malignant dandelion fluff.

It’s not a secret; scientists have been trying to raise awareness about this for years, to the incredible resistance of the government. Tourism is their gravy. How many people would still flock there every day if they knew they were breathing in fibers that could potentially irritate their lungs into mesothelioma in a decade or two? It wouldn’t kill the tourism industry—pun intended—but it could hurt it.

And in today’s economy, you’re damn right any news that could potentially harm income is immediately downplayed as much as possible. And the government gets away with ignoring it by falling back on the standard “More tests are needed,” which is basically its version of the entertainment industry’s “The check’s in the mail.”

Maybe it’s easier to ignore because it’s naturally occurring instead of an evil corporation doing the screwing—you can’t sue Earth, even though our planet is constantly trying to kill us.

Earthquakes, floods, fires, tsunamis, volcanoes. It’s a thrill a minute on good old planet Earth.

But here I am, flying down the road in my car with the windows down, breathing in the early evening air anyway. Knowledge is power, but becoming paranoid about the things that could kill us is ridiculous. We’re dying from the first breath we take when the doctor slaps our ass anyway. I crank the radio and sing along obnoxiously loudly with the music, feeling strangely optimistic about things, like I’ve driven across the border into another life.

In a way, I have.

According to what I found online, when she first came to Vegas, Inana moved into a little apartment near the Strip, eager to immerse herself in the bustle of the place to research a mysterious project that I can’t find any information on, needing to feel the pulse of Sin City. Yet less than a year later she moved to a bungalow a little ways outside of the city limits.

Her sister gave me the key, and her blessing to explore as much as I wanted.

I should feel guilty about the gratification I feel at being granted access to her place, should feel shame, like a stalker who gets carte blanche access to his victim’s underwear drawer, but I don’t. Satisfaction coats me like a second skin, and for the first time in a few days I feel like I’m close to something important.

Something voyeuristic, but cathartic.

Inana’s bungalow sprawls alone on the left side of the road, a pale collection of modern right angles mixed with rustic, blocky fencing made of rough-hewn logs. There’s no overgrowth blocking the way to the door—we’re in the desert. Come, go, stay, it doesn’t care and isn’t going to try to cover up your presence. All that happens is that the wind blows more sand over any traces of life.

No tire tracks or footprints in the short driveway.

Lola says she hasn’t been able to make herself come back here since Inana was found inside. Can’t say I blame her. Maybe she should have sold the place and been rid of it, but perhaps it’s a last connection to her sister. Even though it’s empty except for bad memories, it’s a connection. It’s somewhere that Inana walked through, ate in, sat looking out the windows, touched things. If she sold it, what else would be left?

We never know what we’d do until we’re faced with those decisions ourselves.

The door is heavy and shut tight, but I push it open and flick on the light, surprised to see a fine layer of sandy dust covering everything, muting the colors of the furniture and floors. I half expect to see an old woman in a ruined wedding dress waiting for her errant lover—or revenge—but it’s as silent as a grave.

No carpet to absorb the dust, so the tiled floor is dull underfoot, and my boots leave faint footprints. The walls are a light buttery yellow, bringing a warmth to the dull emptiness, but I expected something more vibrant for Inana.

Then again, she herself would have been the brightest thing in any room she was in, no matter the décor. I guess she didn’t want to compete with the furniture.

I wouldn’t say it’s in shambles, but it’s obviously fallen into a state of neglect. Lola said I was welcome to stay here, but it needs some cleaning before that can happen.

People live differently in their houses. Some treat their place like storage, packing every spare room and drawer with things, occupying the space but not really living in it. With them it always feels like they’re not unpacked, not staying.

Others use it like a rock band in a hotel room, wearing things out at an alarming rate—living in the space but not loving it or treating it as permanent. It’s amazing how badly people will treat a space they don’t have to clean.

Houses that are treated like homes feel different, smell different.

Despite the dirt and neglect, Inana’s home is the latter. She lived and loved here. I want to see it the way she saw it when she was still living here, so I head for the kitchen and, sure enough, under the sink I find cleaning supplies. I get to work dusting every surface, cleaning the grime from windows. I tug the area rug from beneath the couch and hang it over the railing on the front porch to air out. Heading back inside, I sweep the dust from the corners of the floor.

I find a vacuum and set to cleaning the couch and two chairs in the dining nook.

Did Inana do this herself, or, like most stars, did she have someone in to clean? It’s a little bit of a drive to get out here, but it’s not like she couldn’t have afforded it.

An hour or two later I’ve made it decent, and admire the subtle charm of the place now that it’s restored. I wander to the window in the living room, trailing my fingertips over the sill, imagining Inana doing this years ago. I’m touching the place she probably touched. But she died here, too, I realize with a start, rifling in my purse for my phone to look at the police reports about Inana—when she was found.

No stain marks the place on the floor where her bright star faded to black, full of pills with her wrists cut—insurance in case the pills weren’t enough to do the job, I guess. I sit on the couch, staring down at that blank space where she breathed her last breath. How did she feel at the end? Did regret seep into her consciousness, or did she look forward to whatever was next, no matter what it was, with the same lustful curiosity she had for everything else she tried?

I can’t wrap my mind around her doing this. Ending things.

Macabre, maybe, but I get to my knees and lie down in the spot where Inana was found. Her heart stopped here.

Her life as we know it ended.

Why?

Is her sister right that she was murdered? But even if Inana did kill herself, that doesn’t mean it was anything more than an accidental overdose. Except for the wrists, whoever did it and however, it wasn’t an accident.

A small town’s worth of people have jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge to their deaths. But did you know that almost thirty people have jumped—and survived? The common thread through all of their stories was that in that brief time between when their feet left the bridge and when they hit the water, they realized that all the things they’d thought were insurmountable—all the problems they hadn’t seen a way out of—became nothing. Trivial, infinitely solvable. Except for one.

The fact that they’d just jumped off a fucking bridge.

Some prayed for God to save them and give them another chance. Others didn’t have time.

What did they do with their lives after the “miracle”? That would make a good story.

Then again, worth is a relative concept as well. If someone gave up a high-flying job to become a turnip farmer in Arkansas because it made her happy, other people might think she was fucking loopy.

Happiness is relative as well.

Did Inana have a moment after the pills, after the cuts, where she regretted the choice to do it and would have given anything to take it back? Or by then had the narcotics turned her brain waves to something syrupy and slow, made her not care at all, made dying another adventure to be experienced?

What a waste. My heart aches for them all, and the sudden need to connect with Jack, tell him how much he means to me, presses close, surrounding me, and I pull out my phone and call him.

“Hello?”

I smile at the sound of his voice. “I love you, Jack.”

“You got there safely.”

“I did. It’s such an isolated place for someone like her.” I’ve given Jack a very stripped-down version of my story about Inana. He seemed a little less than excited about it, but he was going on the road with Bob anyway. It’s not like we’d have been together at home if I hadn’t decided to do this.

“Some people like the quiet.”

“I guess so. How are you?”

A woman’s voice murmurs in the background. Jack clears his throat. “Listen, Cath, I’ve got to go. Bob’s giving an interview and I need to help prep him. Talk to you soon.”

Annoyance at competing with Bob makes me hesitate and take two deep breaths before telling Jack I love him, but he’s already hung up. I exhale frustration. Is it too much to ask for a little enthusiasm about what I’m trying to do? Maybe it’s not as important to Jack, but it matters to me. That should make it matter to him too, right?

Maybe this story is as big as Jack’s campaign. I just need to focus. I turn my head, my eyes landing on Inana’s bookshelf across the room. It’s only one shelf, nine small squares of equal size, but the books seem well-used. Some people keep books to be pretentious, hoarding trendy bestsellers—thanks, Oprah—and classics that they’ll never crack the spines of. Rarely will you come across a true bibliophile who loves books the way most people love their children, and they’ll hang onto first editions or favorites signed by authors they admire.

In today’s age of digital everything, where we can download entire libraries to our phones, the physical books people keep mean something. Hundreds of years ago, people used to press flowers between the pages of books, flowers that were given to them by gentle suitors with good intentions and manners. Back when volumes were spoken based on types of flowers, colors.

I prefer the plain language of today, where we women are allowed to make our feelings known as well.

There’s an unassuming black volume that I nearly don’t notice, but the title grips me.

Fantazius Mallare: A Mysterious Oath by Ben Hecht.

The book Inana referenced in her diary.

I grab it and flee back to the couch, anxiously flipping through it to find the quote.

“I must explain this to her. If she loves me well enough she will understand. All things are possible in love. I will explain to her that I possess her at will without the loathsome absurdities of sex.”

What did Inana find relevant enough about this quote to scrawl it in her diary and underline it three times? The quote itself suggests love not held to the strictures of physicality, but not selfless, either. Is it more about the mind? Sexy, complete dominance and ownership of someone even when sex isn’t part of the equation? What are the “loathsome absurdities” of sex?

Sex itself can be hilarious when you stop to break down any part of it, but I don’t think that’s what he means. Is it that sex isn’t enough? The way people attach other attributes and emotions, commitment and meaning, bondage of emotion, to something as simple as fucking. No one looks glamorous with a cock in her mouth, but it’s not about how it looks.

It’s about how it feels.

Maybe that’s what resonated with Inana. She never gave a shit about what her journey looked like to others. It was about how it felt to her. Inana was using her body instead of words, but who speaks her language? Not many people, sadly.

I’ve got the rudimentary bits down, but I’m not fluent. Still, I speak enough to know she was onto something.

What she did, what she showed, made me feel something. Maybe that’s all that she wanted.

Maybe that’s enough.

But I need to know for sure. I need to know her thoughts, her angles. I need to see the things she did.

I find the quote on pages 71 and 72.

But there’s also an address and the words La Notte.

I search for those online, and I’m somehow not surprised when absolutely nothing turns up.

Was this a favorite spot of Inana’s? It’s not late, 9:38 p.m., so I text Inana’s sister, asking if she knows anything about La Notte and Inana’s connection to it.

Her reply sets off a plan.

La Notte is where Inana worked for six months before she disappeared. It’s a hotel.

And it’s where I’m going to go tomorrow morning.