Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Who are Livia’s closest friends?” I ask.

“She doesn’t have none.” But the assertion is halfhearted. As in, her own mother once again doesn’t know the answer.

I wait, in case she clarifies. In the silence, she takes a drag of her cigarette, so deep that for an instant her face appears skeletal. “We’re not the friendly type,” she says at last, exhaling slowly.

“Did Livia like school?”

“She went.”

“What was her favorite subject?”

“I dunno.” Inhale, exhale, tap. “She’d bring home these little projects she’d made. Like this fake pumpkin. Tiny, carved from orange plastic. Even the eyes were cut out. It was cute enough. Worthless, though. What the hell am I supposed to do with such a thing?”

I have no idea what kind of class at school leads to minuscule plastic jack-o’-lanterns. “Do you still have it?”

Roseline glances at the floor. There is more movement beneath the expansive layer of trash. I can’t look anymore.

“Maybe you could show me on Livia’s computer? It must have a record of her schoolwork.”

Roseline bangs her cigarette against the remnants of the beer can, shakes her head. “You see a computer? Girl had to use whatever they had at school.”

“So she liked school? Her other classmates—”

“She went. Every morning. Got up, got out. That’s all I care.”

But I can hear it in Roseline’s voice. That’s not all she cared. That’s not all she was worrying about.

“Sounds lonely,” I prod now. “Going to school each day without any friends.”

“The girl stayed out of trouble.”

“She’s shy?”

“She’s clever. Always where you don’t expect her. Seeing things she shouldn’t see. Hearing stuff she shouldn’t hear. Even when she was young. But then, you’d turn around, and she’d be gone again. Learned from her brother not to be in one place too long. Gonna be sneaky?” Roseline stares at me. “Better also be fast. Livia had skills.”

Meaning Angelique’s new acquaintance from fashion camp was habitually subversive? Or maybe, by virtue of snooping where she wasn’t wanted, in some kind of serious trouble?

“In the weeks leading up to Livia’s disappearance, did anything seem different?”

“Was what it was.”

The answer I expected. “Your son, Johnson? Is he more or less interested in his sister?”

“Johnson wouldn’t hurt his sister!” The answer is reflexive, and not entirely devoid of dread.

“Why not?”

“Family’s family. ’Sides.” Roseline’s first moment of levity. “Drama’s not good for business.”

I get her point. Except according to O’Shaughnessy, Johnson is pretty low level. Meaning he probably reports to higher-level gangsters who probably report to highest-level drug lords. Would they consider a fifteen-year-old girl off limits? Especially one who had a tendency to be where she shouldn’t?

“Where did Livia go to school?”

Roseline rattles off a name that is definitely not Angelique’s school. “Is that . . . ?”

“A trade school. Nothing wrong with that. Kids need a life skill. Or . . .”

They’d fall back on the family business of dope dealing.

“Did she have a favorite teacher?”

Inhale, exhale, tap. Shrug.

“Favorite subject?”

“She liked making the pumpkin.”

A commotion now. Noise from the front of the house. Roseline sits up suddenly, stubs out her cigarette. The first time she’s stopped smoking since I entered the room.

“Time’s up.”

“Wait—”

“You gotta go. Door’s behind you. You know the saying, don’t let it hit you on the ass on your way out.”

Apparently, I’m not allowed out the way I came in but must flee through the rear door. I want to argue, but suddenly Roseline is standing, her nicotine-stained fingertip an angry punctuation as she jabs it toward me.

“Out!” Her tone is suddenly commanding.

I hesitate. “Come with me. I’ll take you to a meeting. We’ll go together. I’ll hold your hand, you hold mine.”

“Go!”

“One step. Remember that year? Even now you miss it. Come with me. I’ll help you.”

“Now.”

“Mrs. Samdi—”

Her left hand snakes out, grabs my shoulder, and clenches it with a strength that is surprising. “You’re not safe.”

I don’t have words. The spit dries up in my mouth, while her clawlike fingers skewer me in place.

“Livia was not safe.”

“Mrs. Samdi, are you saying you’re grateful she’s gone? Is that why you never reported her having gone missing to the police? You hope she has run away. You think she’s safer that way?”

“This is no place for girls.”

“I can handle Johnson—”

“It’s not my son you should fear.”

The noise turns into a riot of pounding feet and streaming expletives. Heading straight at us.

I want to ask more questions. I want to understand. But Roseline is already shoving me toward the back door.

“If you find my Livia,” Mrs. Samdi hisses, wrenching open the door.

“Wait—”

“Do not bring her home to this.”

Then Roseline Samdi shoves me straight out. I stagger down the steps, arms pinwheeling for balance. I’ve just come to a stop, when I hear male voices, shouting behind me.

“Mom!”

“Stop her!”

“What the fuck, J.J.!”

I don’t spare a moment to look back. I bolt away from the house. I run fast, then faster, not even glancing behind me when I hear the rat-a-tat of footsteps chasing me. Though just for a second, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a shockingly tall, skinny Black man wearing a red tracksuit and loads of gold chains. Retro man, I recognize. The guy from Angelique’s school who’s dressed like a time capsule from 2002.

There’s a look on his face. A warning.

I add a fresh burst of speed just as a gunshot splits the air. Followed by another.

I dodge left, hunching my shoulders to make myself as small a target as possible as I pound down the sidewalk, gasping through my tears. Another left, another right. Keep on trucking. Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.

Paul, I think wildly. Then the giant hole in my chest gapes open, and I run through that, too. Faster, faster, faster.

Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.

I run so fast my tears dry before they can stain my cheeks. I race so hard I’m not even in this city, but somewhere far away where the trees are sinister shadows and the moon is snatching at my hair and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the sheer terror.

Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.

Next thing I know, I’m plowing into the Dunkin’ Donuts, where my new friends are staring at me.

“Call the police, call the police, call the police!” I scream at Charadee.

Which she does, except I don’t remember the rest; I’m crying too hard, my mind a wreck of then and now, what was and what is. What will never be again.

Eventually Lotham bursts through the door. He takes one look at my devastated face and pulls me into his arms.

“Paul,” I sob hysterically against his chest.

He lets me collapse against him, and holds me as I weep.

I sit in a booth at Stoney’s. On the table in front of me: a mug of coffee, a glass of water, and a giant box of Munchkins that Charadee shoved into my hands as I was leaving. The box is open. I’ve managed to eat two, which explains the powdered sugar on my fingers, lips, and cheek. Lotham disappeared long enough to retrieve a damp washcloth. Now, he uses it to wipe gingerly at my snot- and tear-stained face. I don’t make a move to stop him or assist.

My brain has short-circuited. My heart has exploded in my chest. That nothing actually happened to me is the least of my worries.