Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Hah. Good luck with that.”

“Why are you here? Why this case? Why this girl? What exactly it is you’re looking for?”

He’s ruining my mood and my appetite. I shutter the clamshell container of hot dog and fries, take a sip of my lime rickey instead. It’s melting fast now. Probably doesn’t like angry conversations any more than I do.

“You want to know who I am.”

“Precisely.”

“Maybe it’s more important to know who I’m not.”

“I have such a headache right now, and this . . . is not helping.”

But he started it, and now I won’t be put off. “You want to know me, Mr. Big-Shot Detective, Mr. Fucking BPD and Expert on All Things Local? You ran my background. You already know what you need to know. I’m a woman who can’t stay in one place for very long. I don’t have close, lasting relationships. I have no sense of material possessions or financial stability. And I fight every fucking day not to take a drink. You know what I can do? This. Locate missing persons. Work cold cases. I don’t know why. But this is what I’ve got, pretty much the only thing I’ve got, so I’m sticking with it.”

“Some modern-day Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock sees the answers. I just have a gift for asking the right questions.” I take the bag from him, jam my container of food back in. “I don’t know where Angelique is. I don’t know why she has a hidden stash of counterfeit money or what’s her relationship with Livia Samdi or why she’s running around the city with a fake ID leaving coded messages. But I’m also okay not seeing that far ahead. As long as I have the next question . . . I’ll get there.”

Lotham has finished his lunch. He takes the bag back, adds his own trash. His eyes are dark and intense. He stands much closer to me than necessary. I can feel the heat from him. Roiling waves of rage and frustration.

“You want answers,” I say quietly.

“Of course!”

“You’re all about the finish line.”

“Bringing home a missing teenage girl, hell yes.”

“I’m about the process. Once we cross the finish line . . . that’s where I get lost. That’s when I stop understanding things so well.”

He frowns, appearing genuinely puzzled. “You’re really never going to settle down? You’re really just gonna do this—drift from city to town to city?”

“Will you miss me?” I smile. It’s a bit sad, though. I would honestly like the good detective to kiss me. No, I’d like him to drag me around the back of the building and fuck me senseless, because that’s the kind of intensity I crave. But he’s all solid and stable and Marine Force Recon. The calm in the storm. While I’m the hurricane that destroys everything in its path.

Lotham must read some of it on my face, because he suddenly grabs my chin. His hand is warm, his fingertips calloused. I part my lips. His thumb brushes over the lower one and I clamp down on his finger gently, touching the pad of his thumb with the tip of my tongue.

His eyes darken. Here’s something else I know: Good guys like him have a weakness for train wrecks like me.

Just ask Paul.

“Do you want to take me home?” I ask him softly, releasing his thumb. “I’ll go. We can fuck on your sofa, your kitchen table, maybe even your bed if we get that far. You can work out all that turmoil. Maybe you’ll even feel in control. Like you got a handle on me, at last. Got me right where you want me.”

He doesn’t speak, but takes a step closer.

“I love sex. The harder the better. A moment where I don’t have to think, where I can escape my own mind? Afterwards, I might even get a good night’s sleep. But the minute it’s over, you’re gonna want what you’re gonna want, and I’m still gonna be me. And that will piss you off all over again.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

I smile. And I can see Paul so clearly, it’s like a hole being ripped in my chest all over again.

What did you do, Frankie? Dear God, what did you do?

I loved you.

“I have to go to work now,” I tell the detective honestly. “I get off at midnight. If you want to find me. We can talk about the case. Or not. I’ll be there.”

I step back. Then, because one step doesn’t quite do the trick, two, three, four, more. He watches me retreat, staying rooted in place with the remnants of our shared lunch. When I’m sure he’s truly going to stay, I turn.

I walk rapidly back to Stoney’s. I tell myself I am okay. I tell myself I’m not rattled. I tell myself I can handle it.

Because no one can be honest all of the time. Not even me.

I pop upstairs to my apartment to clean up before work. And possibly, though I don’t want to get carried away, because I’m worried about Piper. But given that I’m greeted with a giant ball of vomit in the middle of the floor, I can see my concerns are misplaced. I check under the bed, and sure enough, glowing green eyes stare back at me.

“We need to discuss your communication style,” I inform her.

She blinks slowly.

“I find the gutted mice and pile of ick to be passive aggressive. If you need a bit of personal space, just say so.”

She yawns, flashing canines. Maybe her communication style is direct, and I just don’t like the message.

I get out the paper towels and mop up the mess.

Tomorrow, I’ll hit the grocery store, I promise myself. After I survive my work shift, attend an AA meeting, and . . . well, whatever comes next with the good detective.

I really wouldn’t mind a night of mad, passionate sex.

Then again, I’m not convinced Lotham is the type who can handle the morning after.

I sigh heavily. Scrub my hands and face, rake a comb through my hair, then report downstairs for work.

Stoney is his usual silent self. I appreciate that today. My mind is racing. For all my big words to Lotham, I hate having this many questions. Livia and Angelique. Angelique and Livia. Am I being too naïve? Maybe instead of secret besties, they were lovers and Angelique wasn’t ready to disclose her sexuality to the world?

In my experience, teenagers today are pretty open-minded about these things. Certainly compared to my generation. Though maybe sexual orientation isn’t as accepted in Haitian culture? Or in Angelique’s family? How do I ask that question?

It matters, though. What is the relationship between Angelique and Livia, and what drove both of them to disappear within months of each other?

Us. Help us.

And again, just how many people is us ? Is a presumed runaway girl the end of that question, or just the beginning?

The knowledge of a second missing teen does help with some answers. For example, Angelique’s obvious autonomy to move around the city, but her continued need for secrecy and refusal to come home. Human trafficking 101 is to play the girls off one another. You can have freedom for the night. But one false move, and your friend will pay the price. Given Angelique’s reputation for caretaking, she would be particularly vulnerable to such control tactics. Especially if Livia was a new friend, more-than-friend, whom she wouldn’t want to betray.

Meaning that eleven months later, Angelique had acquired some level of trust and independence from her kidnappers—while remaining terrified for her safety, and the safety of at least one other girl.

Angelique didn’t believe in dreams, Emmanuel had said. She believed in making plans. Like sending a coded message. Like appearing at a major wireless store where maybe she hoped she’d be captured on security cameras. Two sightings in two weeks.

Whatever her plan was, it involved a definite sense of urgency. Meaning what had changed? What was about to happen if we didn’t pick up on her trail of breadcrumbs and fast?