Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Quality fake IDs, quality fake money, or at least access to quality counterfeits . . .”

I wait.

“Off the top of my head, I’d say it doesn’t have to be a new gang,” he says slowly, “but maybe a traditional player with a new connection. I can do some digging.”

“Don’t put yourself at risk.”

Charlie glances down at his imposing size. “I’ve been around a long time, little girl. Grew up in this town. Lived on these streets. Don’t you worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aren’t you sweet for a woman who doesn’t stick around?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not sentimental.”

“Think it means exactly that.”

“No.” I shake my head seriously. “I just know how to live with the pain.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

“You really think these girls, Angelique and Livia, are caught up in some sort of criminal enterprise?” he asks at last.

“I think . . . I think Livia was clearly terrified of something. You can see it on her face on the security camera. And the fact that Angelique left her school disguised as her friend . . . Angelique’s been described as a nurturer. Let alone, she clearly had a close relationship with Livia. Maybe a very close relationship.”

Charlie arches a brow, doesn’t say anything.

“I can imagine Angelique trying to devise a plan to help her friend. Save Livia. Except.” I sigh sadly. “They are just kids. And you know how it is with teens. They get in trouble first.”

“Figure out the real danger later,” Charlie finishes for me.

“Exactly. Whatever usefulness they’ve had for their captors, I’m wondering if it’s nearing an end. Hence Angelique’s desperate attempts at contact. Posting a coded message, appearing in the wireless shop. Something’s changed, the clock ticking down in a genuinely terrible, dangerous way. Given the two have been missing this long, nothing to stop their captors from disappearing them completely.”

“Damn,” Charlie mutters. “I’ll keep an ear out.” Then, more softly, so only I can hear. “But as long as we’re talking danger, you should know I did learn a few things, but it wasn’t about them.”

It takes me second. “About me?”

“You’re asking too many questions. Your visit today to the Samdi household got people riled up.”

“Who? And is that why he shot at me?”

“You need to be more careful, my friend.”

“Why? If Livia’s brother is just some low-level dope dealer, who cares about my visit?”

“You can get killed for looking wrong around here. Don’t trust you’re as immune as you think.”

I tilt up my chin in an impressive display of false bravado. “I’m here to find a missing girl. Or girls, as the case may be. I’m gonna keep going till that job is done. You can start your own rumor on the streets—they want the skinny white chick to go away, then produce Angelique and Livia. I’ll be gone within a matter of hours. On my word.”

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“Does for me.”

Charlie smiles, but it’s a briefer expression this time. He leans forward. “Watch your back, little lady.”

“I’ve been in tough places before.”

“Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been to war, and it still wasn’t as scary as living around here.”

I don’t have an answer to that. I finish my salad. Charlie finishes his coffee. I pay for both of us—then, despite my protests, Charlie walks me home.

Even then, I’m suddenly aware of all the dark shapes around us, noises from side streets, small gatherings in the dark. One kid with a gun. All it would take. Quick, dirty, effective. Charlie’s not wrong about that.

At the side entrance to Stoney’s, I kiss my newfound friend on the cheek in gratitude, then retreat upstairs and hole up in the solitude of my apartment.

I call Lotham. It’s late, but it doesn’t surprise me that he picks up immediately.

“You should pull the fake ID Angelique dropped yesterday. I have reason to believe the ID itself might be a clue.”

A pause, the weight of many unasked questions, such as why did I believe such a thing now and who might I have been speaking with. Then: “I’ll retrieve it from evidence first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Then, we don’t speak. I stay on my puny little flip phone. I listen to him breathe. And it’s like knives flaying my skin. The sense of déjà vu. The harsh knowledge that this is the only way I know how to connect. All these years later, nothing has changed. I am me, and the rest of the world, the good guys like Paul, like Lotham . . .

“Good night,” I say at last, my voice thick. I might be crying, but I don’t want to be.

“Good night,” he agrees.

He ends the call. I sit in my threadbare room, holding my phone against my chest and telling myself I have no reason to be sad when this is the life I’ve chosen for myself. Eventually, I change into my sleeping clothes, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. Lights out. One day done, another soon to begin.

But once again, my dreams haunt me.

Paul: “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Me: “I just have work to do.”

“Are you drinking again?”

“No! It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then why all the secrecy, the disappearing act?”

“I told you, I’m looking into something, a friend’s missing daughter . . .”

“What’s it to you?”

Me, hostile: “What’s it to you?”

“There you go again. I’m trying to ask a question, you make it a war.”

“I’m not making it a war!”

“You keep secrets, Frankie. You enforce boundaries, erect walls. Then turn around and try to pretend it doesn’t matter. What’s it going to take for you to be honest with me?”

“What’s it going to take for you to trust me?”

“You’re an addict. You really have to ask that?”

Me, staring at him, feeling my throat thicken and my chest compress. “It’s not always about drinking!”

“Then what’s it about?”

My mouth opens, but the words don’t come out. I stare at his kind, earnest face. I gaze into the eyes of the man who loves me. And once again, I feel nothing but my own frantic heartbeat. I gotta go. I gotta get out. I can’t handle this.

I found this man. I fell in love with his kindness, his patience. He saw me, all of me, and he didn’t turn away. He let me in. He held back my hair while I puked my way through detox. He spoon-fed me broth while I slowly fought my way back to living. He crawled into bed beside me, all those horrific nights, when I shook uncontrollably and prayed for death but never actually let go because I didn’t want to disappoint him.

He is my anchor. The best person I’ve ever met. If I think of life without him, I feel pain, way down deep in the place that alcohol once took away, and now I will always get to live with.

And yet, day after day after day. This life. This existence. I don’t feel joy or contentment or everlasting peace.

I think, most of the time, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me.

I think, all of the time. I wish I could disappear. Vanish without a trace. Never to be seen again.

My hand, on the doorknob, trembling slightly. “I’ll be back later.”

Paul, his handsome face now contorted. “Don’t bother.”

“Okay.”

“It’s that easy for you? Just walk away, never look back? For God’s sake, I love you, Frankie.”