Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Coffee,” Lotham orders.

I lift the mug, take a sip.

“Sugar.”

He provides a chocolate Munchkin. I chew obediently.

“Water.”

I move on to the glass.

“Repeat.”

So, I do. Two, three, four more times. Till my coffee mug is dry and the water gone and a suspicious number of donuts missing as well. Judging by the smear of red jam at the corner of Lotham’s mouth, I’m not the only one using pastries to self-medicate.

“Start at the beginning.”

I try. I’m not really sure what there is to say. I met with Mrs. Samdi. I asked her a variety of questions about her daughter, Livia, most of which she couldn’t answer. Meaning I basically learned what Detective Lotham had surmised the day before—Livia’s family wasn’t exactly the loving sort.

“She ordered you to leave,” he repeats now.

“Someone arrived. At the front. I could hear a commotion. I never saw who, but Mrs. Samdi’s demeanor changed. She shoved me out the back. She said . . .” I draw a shaky breath. “She said the house wasn’t safe for girls. She told me if I found her daughter, not to bring her home.”

“Why isn’t their house safe for girls?”

“I don’t know.”

“The son, J.J.—”

“Johnson.”

Lotham arches a brow.

“You should call him that,” I insist. “Really pisses him off. Apparently, you can’t score any street cred as a Johnson.”

“Definitely not.”

“But she also implied he wouldn’t hurt his sister. Family doesn’t go after family. Someone else, I’m guessing one of Johnson’s acquaintances, bosses, I don’t know. Higher on the criminal food chain.”

“Okay. So Mrs. Samdi shoves you out the rear door. You take off and they—”

“I didn’t see.”

“—give chase. And fire a gun?”

“I heard gunshots. But I didn’t stop to look. Firing at me, firing at someone else, someone else firing at them firing at me. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And guess is as good as we got,” Lotham grumbles. “Uniforms already canvassed the area. As the saying goes, nobody saw nothin’. On that block, that’s how it goes. Crime techs recovered a fresh slug from the side of a porch probably two feet from where you passed. Trajectory indicates it didn’t come from behind you, however, but from across the street.”

“Oh goody. So it was one of the neighbors who wanted me dead.”

“First time being shot at, Frankie?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want a drink?”

“Is it a day ending in Y ? Hell yes.”

“Then talking is what you get to do instead.”

I have to smile. Man is smart, his manipulation well played. But I’m not going to talk to him about my meltdown, or PTSD or whatever you want to call it. It’s too personal. And maybe, all these years later, still too intimate. It belongs to Paul and me. To talk about it with anyone else . . .

I will call his number. Listen to it ring. The click of him picking up. The reassuring sound of his breathing, syncing with my own. My heartbeat. His heartbeat. Intertwined.

Then a woman’s voice: “You need to stop this. You need help.”

Don’t we all?

I get up from the booth, head to the kitchen for more coffee. I’m already so caffeinated I teeter on the edge of nausea. Ironically, this is not when I’m most at risk for falling off the wagon. I’m too exhausted to self-destruct. If I finally pour that drink I’ve been craving for nine fucking years . . . Trust me, I plan on remembering it.

When I turn around, Lotham is standing behind me in the kitchen. He takes the mug from my violently trembling hand, and leads me back to the booth.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I don’t think Livia and Angelique meant to be friends.”

“Okay.”

“I think something else brought them together. Neither one of them enrolled in fashion camp because they were that into fashion. Angelique’s a future doctor who likes to sketch. Livia, apparently, is a sneaky survivor with a penchant for making things. But then Angelique’s bestie bailed on her for a basketball player, and Livia never had a friend to start with. So you have two lone girls, both quiet but smart. Maybe they simply sat side by side for a bit . . . I don’t know. I think they became friends in spite of themselves.”

“Yet never mentioned each other’s names to their families?”

“Livia doesn’t have that kind of family. As for Angelique . . .” I hesitate, glance at the detective. “In the beginning, I thought Angelique kept Livia to herself so as to not alienate her other friends. But given how connected Angelique and Livia must have become, for both of them to have now gone missing . . . What if we were right in the beginning? Angelique did fall in love. It just wasn’t with a boy.”

“You think she and Livia were dating?”

“It would explain the secrecy. At fifteen, trying to figure out who they are, how they identify. Livia with her fucked-up family. Angelique with her much more traditional one.” I shrug. “None of this stuff is easy. But clearly there’s a connection between the two girls. And yet, as you say, Angelique never mentioned Livia’s name to anyone. In her world, that’s a pretty big omission.”

“Unless Livia got her involved in something criminal.”

“You really think Angelique wouldn’t talk to Marjolie and Kyra about illegal activities? Please. Best buds are by definition co-conspirators. No, this level of secrecy smacks of something more personal.”

Lotham nods slowly. “All right. But even if we assume Angelique and Livia’s relationship was intimate, it still doesn’t explain how both wound up missing, three months apart. Let alone why Angelique had thousands of dollars, including counterfeit hundreds, stashed in a ceramic lamp.”

“Details, details,” I mutter. But the detective does have a point. “Let’s back up for a moment. What do we know about each girl? They both live in Mattapan, but they didn’t attend the same high school, meaning they probably met for the first time at fashion camp. Angelique was there due to her interest in art while Livia liked to make things. Both come from very different family backgrounds. Both, apparently, are good at keeping secrets.”

Lotham nods. His hand remains next to mine on the table. Now, he idly rubs my thumb. I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it. But I don’t move and he doesn’t stop.

“What kinds of things did Livia make?” he asks.

“Her mom talked about a plastic jack-o’-lantern that Livia brought home from school. Eyes cut out, whole nine yards. Though I have no idea what kind of class teaches plastic pumpkins.”

“Livia attended a trade school. I was talking to her guidance counselor when I got the report of shots fired. Livia had courses in basic construction, metalwork, and some computer design class. I don’t remember anything involving plastic. Wait.” Lotham pulls his hand away, snaps his fingers. “Her computer design course. They have a 3D printer. That would do it. Maybe for Halloween. Design and print your own jack-o’-lantern.”

“Counterfeit money,” I murmur. “Any way you can get from design and print pumpkins to design and print U.S. currency?”

“Absolutely not. Remember that whole spiel on counterfeiting being a very sophisticated operation, involving printing presses, master tradespeople, and extremely rare and specialized inks—”

“Yeah, it’s coming back to me now. But still . . .”

“We have two missing girls with at least a personal connection, not to mention complementary skill sets in art and design.” Lotham shakes his head. “Honest to God, the more I learn in this case the less anything makes sense. But having said that, I think we should return to Livia’s school. Determine exactly what kind of mad skills she had, not to mention if she ever had Angelique with her in the classroom after hours. The fake bills have to mean something, though I’ll be damned if I know what.”