Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“I’ve worked fourteen missing persons cases,” I volunteer. “All around the country. Missing kids, missing adults. You know the one thing they all had in common?”

The girls wait. I have their attention now.

“The victims’ own families, even the ones they loved and who loved them, still didn’t know them. Not all the pieces, the jagged edges, the still-forming dreams. I think in the end, no parent or sibling truly can. That’s where friends come in. Angelique’s aunt, her brother, they see what they’ve always seen, combined with what they want to see. But you two . . . You knew Angelique. You are the family she chose for herself.”

Marjolie looks like she’s going to cry. Even Kyra has lost her edge. She appears younger. Less certain. She glances at Marjolie, who now appears scared. Why scared?

A bell rings, shrill and insistent. Behind us, the kids begin gathering up their belongings.

I make it quick. “Did Angelique have enemies at school? Kids who threatened her? Kids she threatened?”

“We stuck together,” Kyra says. “Watched each other’s backs. And don’t you go talking smack about my girl—Angel never threatened no one in her life.”

“What about gangs?”

“No way. Academy’s neutral ground. Principal Bastion says first time she catches wind of a gang sign or threat, that’s it, we’ll be wearing school uniforms.”

I translate that to mean the uniforms are the threat, and Kyra and her peers are taking it seriously.

Marjolie adds, “Angel wasn’t the kind to call attention to herself. She’s woke, you know. Sensitive to others, but unlike some others who always gotta be making a fuss.” She and Kyra exchange knowing glances. Marjolie continues. “Most of the kids in our school, they didn’t even know Angel’s name till the police showed up asking questions.”

I understand about half of what Marjolie said, but with the sea of kids preparing to exit, now is not the time. “Boyfriend?” I prod.

The girls exchange a glance. Marjolie is uncomfortable. Kyra sets her jaw.

“Yes, Angel had a boyfriend,” I fill in.

“No,” Kyra corrects. “At least . . .”

“We don’t know,” Marjolie clarifies quickly. “Angel came back to school last year . . . different. We teased her—”

“Had to be a boy,” Kyra interjects flatly.

“She said no—”

“Lost the big V. Still think so.” Kyra glances haughtily at her friend. “Not gonna convince me otherwise. Good for her.”

“She would’ve told us,” Marjolie insists. “Why keep it a secret?”

“Maybe he’s batshit ugly.”

Marjolie huffs out a breath, turns to me. “Kyra just likes to pretend she knows Angel the best. Summer before last year, I was the one who spent two months with Angel at the rec center; there were no boys. I mean, no one special.”

“Did Angelique have a job?”

“Babysitting. But she also helped out with her brother, so it’s not like she had tons of time.”

“But you’re saying she returned to school in the fall different? How so?”

More exchanged glances.

“I think Stella found her groove,” Kyra drawled.

Marjolie shook her head. “She was just—”

“Distracted. Big-time.” Kyra again. “She started giving me class notes with only half the material. And when I asked, it was like she didn’t even know. She’d, like, space out or something. From Mrs. Brain Trust to Mrs. Wish You Were Here.”

“Did she seem scared distracted? Or dreamy distracted?”

“Distant,” Marjolie murmured. “She seemed distant, but also like . . . more solidly herself. Like she was alone, even when she was with us, but to her, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.”

I think I understand. Together but separate. I know that feeling well.

Across the street, the bell tones at a more insistent volume. The girls edge toward the street. Their classmates are already departing, exhorting fierce gravitational pull. I speak faster.

“She changed her clothes that Friday after school. Do you know why?”

Both girls shake their heads, take a couple more steps. I quickly follow.

“Did you see her after she changed? Maybe she’d put on a dress, date clothes?”

More negative head shakes. More shifting sideways.

“Okay, okay, one last question, side door of the school. The one you guys use for smuggling in contraband, how do you prop it open? Is there a rock, stick, pencil for jamming the lock?”

Both girls startle, stare at me.

“You need to go, I need answers. Quick.”

My insistent tone, combined with the demanding bell, does the trick.

“Can’t prop it open,” Marjolie murmurs rapidly, voice low. “The janitor checks. Kids bring a friend or two. Couple of kids do the spotting, while the third runs out and grabs . . . whatever.”

“So when Angelique went back into the school Friday afternoon, which of you held the door?”

Kyra and Marjolie draw up short, faces paling.

“What?” Marjolie asks first.

“The police know she reentered the school using the side door in order to change her clothes. Then she hid her backpack. The police already know that. You’re not ratting her out. Please. Eleven months is long enough. It’s time to put it all on the line.”

“The police never mentioned—” Kyra, already sounding angry.

“The police don’t disclose information. But I can. Help me, and I’ll keep you informed.” I’m begging, pleading. One last shrill alarm from inside the school, followed by cars honking on the street, where we’re now holding up traffic.

I want to grab Marjolie’s arm but will myself not to. They know something. Not about the side door, which has appeared to catch them completely off guard. But about the new Angelique who returned from summer vacay. I need to know that something. Detective Lotham has his surveillance videos. I have this.

“It wasn’t us,” Marjolie says suddenly. “We didn’t do it. We didn’t even know she went back inside. When the police said they found her backpack on the school grounds, we wondered.” She flickers a glance a Kyra. “But we honestly had no idea.”

“We’re her friends,” Kyra mutters stiffly. “Her best friends.”

“Then I have to ask again—who are her enemies?” More honking, while the last of the bell fades away.

“The police are wrong,” Kyra declares flatly. “Angel wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t keep secrets, she wouldn’t backstab her friends, and she sure as hell—” Whatever the girl is about to say, she bites it off. One last glare at me, then she grabs Marjolie’s hand and they both bolt for the academy steps.

I’m alone in the middle of the street with plenty of cars willing to tell me about it. I take the first step back toward the sidewalk, still thinking.

They’re lying. Angel’s friends, her brother—they all know more than they’re saying. And yet they also seem genuinely concerned and want her back. Meaning?

I make a quick stop in the corner market to grab water and dash a bunch of notes in my spiral notebook. Then I realize I need to do some hustling of my own in order to get to work on time.

I exit the grocer and round the corner to what I hope is the correct bus stop, casting a glance over my shoulder out of sheer habit.

Which is when I see him. A tall, skinny Black male standing across the way, staring straight at me. At least six foot four. Anywhere from late twenties to late thirties. Wearing a blue nylon tracksuit, with a thick gold chain around his neck, like he last got dressed in the early 2000s.

Cars zoom between us. When they’ve passed, he’s gone. But the shiver of unease follows me back to the bar.