Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

I tilt my head at Lotham. “Angelique would be a good target for that kind of scheme. Shy, quiet girl, also innocent and pretty. Maybe she was befriended, maybe threatened, but for whatever reason, she ended up in a situation beyond her control.”

“I remember that case.” Lotham nods. “There was a retaliatory shooting shortly thereafter. Killed three more.”

“But if that’s what it was,” I contemplate, once again leaning in close, “why didn’t she come home when it was over? Unless something worse happened? A shooting followed by a retaliatory shooting, like you mentioned? But in that case, you’d have a bunch of cops deployed to those scenes, and one of them should’ve seen or heard about Angelique.”

“True. Plus, there’s another problem with that scenario.”

“Do tell.”

“Gangbangers don’t fly.”

It takes me a second, then I get it. If Angelique were meeting up with new friends, and/or gangsters, there should still be some image caught on video. Maybe cameras missed the blip of a moment when Angelique appeared here, or crossed there. But for her to head deeper into the hood, traversing neighborhoods and parks, whether by foot, subway, or car . . . No way some camera somewhere didn’t capture her image. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Detective Lotham hadn’t personally viewed all possible video feeds dozens of times. I’ve done it myself, poring over maps again and again.

It’s how I found Lani Whitehorse, because in the end the lake was the only place she could’ve gone, regardless of the tribal police saying there were no tire marks in the mud, or flattened bushes along the shore to indicate an accident and justify the cost of a water search. I don’t know why that was, or how an ancient Chevy went from a hairpin turn to thirty yards out into a lake without leaving any trace behind. Maybe not all things are meant to be understood.

Of course, in Angelique’s case there remains one other terrible, awful scenario.

“Sex trafficking,” I murmur now. “Innocent girls are often lured into the life. Angelique fits the description as that kind of target as well. Meaning maybe she thought she was going on a date with the new man in her life, except . . .” I shrug. “She never got to come home.”

Lotham doesn’t answer right away. He spins his drink, watching the white liqueur coat the chips of ice. “Boston has a human trafficking unit. They can reach out to CIs, run facial rec against all the local sex services sites, partner with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Prostitution is no longer a street game. It’s gone digital just like everything else. Customers log in, peruse the ‘menu,’ place the order. Sick to be sure, but it does allow us to cover a lot more ground using cyber tech. Let’s just say the human trafficking unit has nothing new to report.”

Stoney appears at the end of the bar, clad in his usual worn jeans and blue chambray shirt. He looks at his watch. Two minutes to midnight by my count, but apparently close enough for him, as he raps the bar three times hard with his fist.

Last call. Customers toss back drinks, rise to standing, cash out accounts. One by one. Till only Detective Lotham remains. Stoney gives him a look, seems to decide he’s nothing to fear, then retreats to the kitchen.

I yawn. “Gonna help me clean?” I ask, starting to stack up dirty glasses.

“I’m trying to figure you out.”

“If only someone could.”

“You really don’t work for money.”

“And give up this kind of reckless abandon?”

“You literally go from place to place, case to case, no time off, no life, no loved ones in between? Like what, some kind of modern-day gunslinger?”

“Yes, there are that many open missing persons cases out there. I could travel from town to town, investigation to investigation for the rest of my life, and still not make a dent in the number.”

“Why?” Lotham downs the last of his drink. He stands up from the stool, then makes his way around the bar till he’s standing right in front of me. His eyes aren’t so flat now. They’re dark and deep and endless. He really does want to know. If only I had the answer.

“I think Kyra and Marjolie were right,” I murmur. “If Angelique had met a boy, she would’ve told them. Maybe not her aunt and her brother, but her two best friends? They would’ve known. But most likely, she had met someone. And what kind of someone would a teenage girl hesitate to introduce immediately to her inner circle?”

“An older man?”

“Or a new female friend. Someone who might be good for Angelique but threatening to her posse. Teenage girls don’t always take that kind of change well.”

Lotham’s studying me intently, still trying to turn me inside out so he can understand all the gearings. See exactly what makes me tick.

I wish it were really that simple. But he remains frustrated and I remain my same old self, thoughts whirling, skin humming, anxiety flying.

He steps back. Away. Heads for the door.

I follow him, preparing to lock up behind. Beyond the bar, the street is cast in pools of light and shadow. The air is colder, the pedestrian traffic scant with roamers keeping their heads down and feet fast.

“I’m gonna focus on potential new friends in Angelique’s world, as well as her missing burner phone,” I tell Lotham as he steps into the night.

“Can’t buy a prepaid cell in Mass under the age of eighteen.”

“Never stopped a teenager before.”

He shakes his head, clearly annoyed by my persistence, but not surprised. “Be careful out there. Bad things can happen, even in daylight.”

“It’s cute you think I’m waiting for daylight.”

I shut the door, firing the bolt home while Lotham is still whipping around in shock. A final wave, then I head back to the bar to finish cleaning up, before starting my next adventure.

The world would be a better place if more people spent time drinking cheap coffee in church basements. So many think we must share the same beliefs to get along. In my experience, sharing the same fear is a far more effective strategy.

By the time I find my way down the stairs of the congregational church, I’m slightly out of breath. I claim a folding metal chair toward the back where I can get the lay of the land. The room, like so many I’ve sat in before it, has commercial-grade carpet, a drop ceiling, and walls covered in a combination of children’s art and framed Bible passages. It smells like coffee and mildew.

Once more, I’m the only white person in the room. Here, however, I can shed the label of outsider. In this room, race, gender, age, ethnicity, income level—these things don’t matter. Interestingly enough, neither does religion. While AA was founded on the principle of God, over the years its lingo has evolved to recognize a more general higher power. Call it what you want; even atheists have some kind of spirituality. The point is we’re all here because we recognize we have a problem with alcohol. We desire sobriety, and understand that, in this matter, we need help to get the job done.

Already, other AAs are turning to offer a nod of greeting, a hand in welcome. From a grizzled old war vet in an army jacket to a young Black kid in a T-shirt to a woman still folding up her cook’s apron. We introduce ourselves, even before the meeting has started. I have a hard time catching all the names or understanding all the accents, but I smile and mean it. Another basic tenet: All are welcome and we welcome all. We are comrades-in-arms, waging a mutual fight with the enemy. And we’ve come together tonight to share the horrors of war, while shoring one another up for another day of battle.