Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

My mother was the intense one. Worked two jobs, the first as a secretary in a law firm, the second doing the books for mom-and-pop businesses. I don’t remember her smiling, or playing, or even stopping long enough to give me a hug. She got up early and worked late, and in her brief moments at home, mostly gritted her teeth at the dishes my father hadn’t done, the meals that hadn’t been cooked, the dirty clothes that hadn’t been washed.

I think my father loved my mother for her fierceness, and she loved him for his sense of fun. Until they didn’t.

I ran around outside a lot. Through woods and scrub brush and winding streams. In my childhood we didn’t have Amber Alerts or stranger danger. Even seven-year-olds felt free to dash out their front doors and ride their bikes for miles. I had friends who were latchkey by nine because why not? We didn’t worry. We just were.

I don’t think any of us realized that was a magical moment future kids would never get to experience. Certainly, we didn’t understand what bad things lurked out there. Until one of my classmates went missing in high school. Then another girl from the town over. And four more girls quickly after that.

The police caught the killer when I was twenty-five. By then I’d moved down to L.A. with no real plan other than to get the hell out of small-town life and party like a rock star. Turned out I was damn good at the partying part. And pretty enough for others to buy my drinks, my meals, maybe even a new dress or two.

I’d like to say those were my free spirit days, but the truth is, I don’t really remember them. It was a rush of drugs and booze and sex, and that I’m alive at all . . .

Paul. He saved me. At least until I grew strong enough to save myself.

House, white picket fence, suburban bliss.

Funny, the things you can grow up not wanting, then suddenly crave with single-minded obsession.

Funnier still, the things you can end up having only to realize you’d been right the first time.

But I loved Paul. I still love him. Even now.

I arrive at my targeted block, which peels off the main road in a sharp diagonal. Definitely no grid system here. Instead, the streets come together, then explode in a crazy hub-and-spoke system. This is not going to be one of those places I learn to navigate quickly or easily. My best guess, weeks from now I’ll still feel exactly as dazed and confused as I do at this moment. Maybe Boston neighborhoods aren’t meant to be understood. You either know where you are, or you don’t. I definitely don’t.

Now, the rows of squat, brick commercial buildings are replaced by a wall of triple-deckers, wedged shoulder to shoulder like a line of grumpy old men. I make out chain-link fences, dirt patch yards, and sagging front steps that delineate each residence. Some have new vinyl siding in shades of pale blue and butter yellow. Others appear one strong breeze from total collapse. Mattapan has some of the last affordable housing in the city for a reason.

Fifth home down the block, with bay windows and a sturdier-looking front porch. This is it. I double check the house number to be sure, then note the light glowing from the second-floor apartment that is listed as belonging to Angelique Badeau’s aunt.

This is the moment it becomes real. Where I go from being well-intentioned to being fully committed. I don’t know what will happen next. A tentative welcome, a harsh refusal. A wailing torrent of desperate grief, or steely-eyed suspicion. I’ve experienced it all, and it never gets any less nerve-racking.

From here on out, my job is to listen, accept, adapt.

And hope, really, truly hope, they don’t hate me too much.

Lani Whitehorse’s grandmother hugged me in the end, though the tribal council pointedly gave me their backs.

I remind myself I’m good at what I do.

I swear to myself that I will make a difference.

I think, uneasily, that like any addict, lying is what I do best.

I head up the front steps.

On the front porch, I encounter six buzzers, meaning the triple-decker hasn’t been carved up only by level, but within each floor as well. Beneath the buzzers is a line of black-painted mailboxes, each one locked tight. It’s a simple but efficient system for the apartment dwellers. I try the front door just in case but am not surprised to find it bolted tight. Next, I press the first few ringers, prepared to announce myself as delivery and see if I can get lucky, but no one answers.

Which leaves me with the direct approach. I hit 2B. After a moment, a male voice, younger, higher, answers. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Guerline Violette.”

“She know you?”

“I’m here regarding Angelique.”

Pause. Angelique has a younger brother, Emmanuel, also a teen. I would guess this is him, particularly as his tone is already defensive with an edge of sullen. He sounds like someone whose been subjected to too many experts and well-wishers and been disappointed by all of them.

“You a reporter?” he demands now.

“No.”

“Cop?”

“No.”

“My aunt’s busy.”

“I’m here to help.”

“We heard that before.” I can practically feel the eye roll across the intercom. Definitely a teen.

“My time is free and I’m experienced.”

“Whatdya mean?”

“If I can talk to Guerline, I’d be happy to explain in person.”

Another pause. Then a female voice takes over the intercom.

“Who are you and why are you bothering us?” Guerline’s voice ripples with hints of sea and sand. Her niece and nephew immigrated to Boston as young children a decade ago, along with tens of thousands of other Haitians after Port-au-Prince was nearly flattened by an earthquake. Emmanuel has grown up in Boston and sounds it. But his aunt has retained the music of her native island.

“My name is Frankie Elkin. I’m an expert in missing persons. I’ve been following your niece’s disappearance and I believe I can help.”

“You are a reporter, yes?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t work for any news agencies or reporting outlets. My only interest is finding Angelique and bringing her home.”

“Why?”

The question is not defensive, but quiet. It tears at me, the amount of weariness in that single word.

I wish I had an answer for her. Something simple like Because, or poignant, such as Every child deserves to be found, or defiant, like Why not? But the truth is, she’s probably heard it all by now. A whole torrent of words and reasons. Instead of being given the one thing she wants most: answers.

The silence grows. I should attempt some line of argument, but nothing persuasive comes to mind. Then, a noise from inside the building. Stairs creaking as a light weight rapidly descends. Another occupant or . . .

The click of the bolt lock snapping back. The front door cracks open and I find myself face to face with a Haitian teenager. Tall, gangly, close-cropped dark hair and deep brown eyes a perfect match with his sister’s. He takes a second to look me over through the slit of the open door, features as wary now as his voice had been earlier.

He turns, already dropping hold of the door. It’s up to me to grab the edge, push through, and follow him up ancient wooden stairs to the second floor.

Guerline Violette stands in the middle of a cramped living room, her arms crossed over her formidable figure. I peg her age somewhere between forty and fifty, but her smooth, dark skin and classic features make it hard to determine. She’s clad in purple scrubs seamed with orange trim and has bright green Crocs on her feet. She’s a daunting woman, especially with her hair pulled into a thick bun on top of her head, calling attention to her high cheekbones and handsome brow. But upon closer inspection I spy the purple smudges of long nights and fearful days that bruise her eyes. She watches my approach with a mix of suspicion and dread. I can’t say that I blame her.