Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Had they heard of Angelique Badeau?”

“The mom recognized the name from the news, that’s it.”

“So they didn’t know she and Livia were friends?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure the mom knew any of Livia’s friends. Or hobbies, or favorite color. Not that kind of family.”

“In other words, the complete opposite of Angelique’s family.” I pause, my hands still on a back of a chair. “I wonder what brought the girls together? Opposites attract? Angelique the caretaker thinking she could help out with Livia’s sad life?”

Lotham shrugs.

“Livia have a history of drinking and drugs?”

“Given the family, I would say yes to both. But they aren’t talking about it.”

“Maybe a school guidance counselor can tell you more.”

“Which is where I’ll be first thing in the morning.”

“So much for sticking around for a late breakfast,” I grumble.

That earns me the detective’s full attention. His eyes darken. He stands ten feet away, still holding the broom, but there’s suddenly not enough air in the room.

“This is what we do know,” he says softly. “Angelique is alive, and she needs help.”

I nod.

“She is somehow connected to Livia Samdi, another missing girl. And we are absolutely, positively, not mentioning anything about red hats to the press.”

“Your hold-back detail.”

“Not to mention, we don’t need dozens of sightings of people in red ball caps tying up resources.”

“What about Angelique’s appearance today? Will you ramp back up the investigation?”

“We are taking the sighting very seriously. But as far as the public knows, we have no confirmation that was Angelique in the store today. Which works well with the clerk’s maybe, kind of, not really sure statement.”

“You don’t want to involve the public?” I ask in surprise. “Reissue the Amber Alert?”

Lotham leans against the broom. “Angelique clearly has some freedom of movement but doesn’t feel like she can come home—”

“She needs help! Help us. She said it herself.”

“Exactly. She feels threatened and in danger. Until we understand more about that threat, who and what it involves, the safest approach is to follow her lead and keep things quiet. We’re adding more officers to the case, don’t worry. But our official position, which I need to know you will support, is that there’s nothing new to see here.”

“Don’t insult me,” I tell him harshly. I return to stacking chairs. I honestly can’t decide what I think of this.

“You’re going to inform Angelique’s family of the new sighting,” I say after another moment.

“The fewer people who know, the better.”

“Are you kidding me?” Now he does have my attention. “You have a significant lead and you’re not going to notify Guerline and Emmanuel?”

“When we know more, have something specific to share—”

“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t even have these latest discoveries without Emmanuel. The family trusts you, they came to you—”

“Actually, Emmanuel came to you —”

“And you wonder why? They knew then that you were holding back, and it did nothing but fuel further mistrust.”

Lotham remains calm and controlled: “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never lied to a family. Never omitted a detail, buried a lead. You do this work, you know how it is.”

I scowl. But I can’t look him in the eye and we both know it. I’ve made this judgment call before myself. I just don’t agree it’s the right approach with Angelique’s aunt and brother.

I stack more chairs. Lotham returns to sweeping. Stoney appears and tends to the register.

Viv finishes first. Her husband no sooner appears on the other side of the smoked-glass doors than Viv comes bustling out, putting on her jacket. Telepathy after so many years of marriage? Or does he text her upon arrival? I don’t know why I prefer the more romantic option.

Stoney takes off next. One last glance between Lotham and me. Then with some sort of mental shrug, he disappears out the side door. Lotham puts away the broom. I finish up cleaning the bar area.

Then that’s it. Work is done. The customers and other employees gone. There’s just this man and me, and a homicidal cat upstairs.

Lotham walks toward me. He’s light on his feet. A boxer. In hindsight, I should’ve known instantly.

He stops right in front of me, and I can’t help myself. I raise my hands. I dance my fingertips across his face, feeling out the line of his jaw, the soft, ragged edge of his mangled ear, then find another scar, just over his left eye. He has ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Why do men always have the best eyelashes?

His buzzed hair scrapes against my palm. Closer in texture to his end-of-day stubble and nothing at all like his silky eyebrows. He has furrowed lines in his forehead. I trace each one. Another sign of his stressful job? I like the mystery of those lines. What they communicate but cannot say.

My hands fall to his shoulders. Heavily muscled, rigid to the touch. Same with his arms. A boxer who still spends plenty of time in the ring. Up this close, I can see the pulse pounding at the base of his throat, hear his ragged breath.

I whisper my lips across the hollow of his throat. He smells of sandalwood, tastes like salt. The cleaned-up version of the man, but I would find him compelling either way.

“Good night, Frankie,” he says.

“Good night, Detective.” Then I raise my lips and kiss him properly.

For a moment, he unleashes. A storm of wild attraction and raw power as he crushes me against him. His mouth devours. His tongue ravages and I respond eagerly. This is not drunken fumbling or mindless fucking. This is feeling your feels.

I don’t protest when he pulls away, releases my arms, and steps back.

“Good night, Frankie,” he says again.

“Good night, Detective.”

Then I let him out the front door, and watch him walk away.

It is a bright, sunny morning as I head down the final few blocks to the Samdis’ apartment. Even with daylight on my side, I find myself hunching my shoulders and gazing around nervously. If Mattapan is a mix of good and bad neighborhoods, this isn’t one of the good ones.

Rusted chain-link fences buckle and gape, revealing modest yards long on neglect—abandoned piles of battered kids’ toys, drifts of dead shrubs, borders of shattered beer bottles and used condoms. Each triple-decker seems determined to appear even more broken down than its neighbor. I honestly can’t tell who’s winning.

This isn’t the place to be after dark. I’m not even sure it’s somewhere I should be now, as I feel eyes starting to fall upon me, and more and more human-sized silhouettes appear at the windows to monitor my progress. I am definitely an outsider here.

Deep breath. In through my mouth. Exhaling through my nose. Not the first time I’ve been through this. Stay calm, relaxed, focus. I’m not a threat. I have no issues. Just a couple of questions for the family.

On my right, the front door opens and three African American males come strolling out, crossing their arms over their muscled chests and pinning me with their best thousand-yard stare. Followed by similar movement from the house across the street. Then up ahead to the right. Then left.

Am I this unwanted here?

I arrive at the Samdis’ building, which is neither the best nor worst on the block. The narrow triple-decker has shed huge flakes of dark green paint, while the stacked front deck sags dangerously forward. A giant piece of plywood patches a hole along the right side. Two more are nailed on the roof.