Izzy slipped on the jacket over her bare skin. The fragile silk lining had been torn in places so she was careful not to rip it further. She stepped into the trousers and zipped them up, careful not to snag the zipper on the small patch of her pubic hair, ignoring the arousal she felt at the sensation. She rolled up the cuffs of the pants and stepped into the black dress shoes, remembering something Alma had said the day Cyrus went missing. If you want to find someone, you have to put yourself in their shoes.

I suggest you go home and lock yourself in the darkest closet, Selma had said.

Why was Izzy listening to crazy people?

Because.

Because who else was there?

She looked at herself in the narrow full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

Someday, she and Cyrus had planned to get married. He would have worn this suit. She would have worn a vintage white satin slip from a thrift store with white combat boots, or, if she were lucky enough to find one in good condition, a woman’s white crepe designer pantsuit with satin trim, like she’d seen an actress from the 1970s wear at her wedding to a rock god. Izzy could tailor the suit to fit and dye it with tea if it was stained. White roses in her hair. None of it mattered now. He was gone. Izzy’s fingers felt into the pockets of the suit jacket again. Where the lining had torn, another small opening had formed. Something met her searching fingers. A small slip of paper.

“Miracle Manor,” the paper said. The place she and Cyrus had gone. For a moment she thought, I read his mind! He was thinking of wearing this suit, thinking of our wedding! But there was a date on the receipt. Four months and twelve days ago. A weekend Cyrus had stayed overnight at the inn for a construction job. Izzy had not been with him to the motel for five years.

Atomic Dog

She waited until the next morning to drive to Desert Hot Springs. Yesterday had been long—and painful. Again. She didn’t have the stamina to face what she might find at the motel.

But, when she woke, she coaxed Yard from his shell with some kale leaves, dandelion greens, and water, forced some coffee down her throat, and got into the truck—the small piece of paper she’d found in the lining of Cyrus’s jacket sweating ink into her clenched palm.

She took the 86 North and the I-10 West from Salton City to Desert Hot Springs. The town had been built on a sub-basin containing a hot water aquifer, and at one time the town featured forty-three spas with geothermally heated mineral pools. Izzy had read that the same grinding of the tectonic plates beneath the earth’s outer crust that caused earthquakes also heated the mineral springs to soaking perfection. There was something strange about that, she thought—the same source providing the threat of violence and the promise of comfort (although sometimes the mineral springs were too hot, scalding, and had to be cooled for soaking purposes). If there was a personal metaphor for her here, she chose not to examine it.