Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

Instead, I lift his legs and tuck him into bed.

“Good night, Detective.”

“Who’s Paul?”

“I didn’t say Paul.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Good night, Detective.”

I put him to bed. Then I take up watch in front of the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer out. But no gold-chained gangster is staring up at me.

“I’m going to learn your secrets,” my guest says sleepily.

“Shhh . . .”

I let the detective sleep. Then I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my window, and think of Livia Samdi, and Angelique Badeau, and what it means to be a teenage girl. The mistakes we all make. The moments we’ll never get back again.

Then, I do say his name. “Paul.”

And I smell blood and I feel pain and I let it wash over me, the price of my sins.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I’m not talking to Paul anymore. I’m talking to Livia Samdi, and all the girls like her.

Then I pray, as hard as I’ve ever prayed, for Angelique Badeau. For us to find her in time. For her to be out there, still alive, still okay.

For her to please, please, please, come home again.

I don’t sleep. My thoughts are spinning too swiftly. Five a.m., Lotham tossing restlessly, I give up and tiptoe out of my room. Stoney has an ancient desktop in his office. I fire it to life, hoping it might provide some insights.

I brew a fresh pot of coffee as I wait for it to boot up. Then I take a seat and have at it.

First, I Google the name Tamara Levesque. It has to mean something, I think. Though, why a college student in Western Mass? But Emmanuel said his sister didn’t dream, she made plans. So what was Angelique trying to tell us? What did we need to know?

I get four hits. Three of them are Tamara Levesques who live in other states. The fourth is a mention on an Instagram page.

I have plenty of experience with social media; in this day and age, it’s impossible to search for missing persons without following their digital footprints. Now, I log in and look up Tamara Levesque.

Immediately, a page for Gleeson College loads up. I discover dozens of photos of a college campus surrounded by rolling green hills and old brick buildings. There are pictures of laughing kids sitting outside, more smiling students inside classrooms. It takes me a bit to pick out Tamara. She’s pictured in a lab, her face partially obscured by goggles as she handles a flask over a Bunsen burner. Her black hair is pulled back tight—Tamara’s image on the license, versus Angelique’s heavy ringlets from her missing poster. But it’s the same girl.

Which leaves me even more confused. Angelique is using her fake ID to enroll in college? That makes no sense at all. So what did Angelique need me to see here? What’s she trying to tell us?

Gleeson College is listed as a small liberal arts college. It appears to rest at the foothills of the Berkshires, with the address given as some town I’ve never heard of. It offers online classes as well as a traditional classroom education. I peruse photo after photo of beaming college students, then read a note from the president—a stern-looking white dude in thick black glasses and gray three-piece suit. I didn’t know people still wore three-piece suits.

I review each photo in detail, then return to the collection as a whole. All in all, Gleeson College looks just like any other New England university, albeit with a particularly pretty campus.

It’s not until my fifth or sixth time through that I spot it. In the background, another female student barely visible in the rear of a classroom. Livia Samdi. I’m certain of it.

She and Angelique ran away to join a college? No way. I don’t believe it for a minute. So what the hell is going on?

I sit back, feeling more lost now than before.

After another minute, I expand my Google search to Gleeson College as a whole. The website, however, mostly seems to repeat the photos from Instagram. I find a page where I can request additional information; I plug in my e-mail, hoping I’ll hear back sooner versus later.

Then I get up and pace the entire length of the dining room several times.

In the end, there’s only one thing I can think of to do next. I need to speak with Livia’s mom, Roseline Samdi. Presumably without getting shot at again, which is easier said than done.

More pacing. Finally, it comes to me. I creep back upstairs and snag my jacket and flip phone. Lotham is snoring away, a soft, rumbling sound at odds with the deep scowl etched into his troubled face. I don’t think his dreams are happy ones. One more thing we have in common.

I return downstairs, where I fumble through my jacket pocket till I find what I’m looking for: the phone list from my first AA meeting. Which includes Charlie’s number. Six a.m. is definitely early by most night owls’ standards. Charlie still picks up almost immediately.

“Who’s this?”

“Frankie Elkin.”

A pause. “You doing okay, Frankie?”

“I’m not about to take a drink, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I could use some help.”

I explain to him about the discovery of Livia Samdi’s body, coupled with the revelation that she has an older brother.

“I don’t know the family well enough to know anything about that,” Charlie says.

“I understand. I want to meet with Roseline. But last time I went to the house . . . Let’s just say I like my head bullet-free.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Do you think you could reach out? AA to AA? Maybe get her to meet you somewhere. Say that little diner where you took me. I need to get her on neutral ground.”

“I don’t know if she’d listen.”

“But you could try. Tell her you have information. About her daughter. But for her ears only. Which is true. I do have information for her ears only.”

Charlie is silent for a long time. “I’ll try,” he says at last. “But no promises.”

“Thank you, Charlie. And just . . . Well, I need to speak to her as soon as possible. Angelique Badeau’s life is at stake.”

“You remember what I said before? Plenty of folks don’t like trouble. Especially some white woman barging in when she’s not welcome and not wanted.”

“Story of my life, big guy.” Pause, then I say more softly, “I want to bring Angelique home. I want to get this right. I need to get this right.”

“‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,’” Charlie intones.

“I know.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But my guess is that family doesn’t rise before noon, so it’ll be a few hours.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

He disconnects. I close up my phone. Noon gives me a solid five hours to do something. Next logical line of questioning? I mull the matter over while I climb back up the stairs. I open my door, then halt in my tracks.

Lotham’s eyes are open and fully alert. He’s not moving, though. Possibly because Piper is also awake and now perched on top of the bed, glaring at him.

“Help,” he says as I enter my apartment.

“Is the big bad boxer scared of a little kitty?”

“Help,” he says again.

But I don’t move closer. I still have blood on my arm from last night. “I looked up Gleeson College. One of the pictures shows Livia Samdi in the background. I’m sure of it.”

“What?” Lotham is startled enough to twist toward me. Piper immediately growls. He returns to his frozen state. I kind of like this game. And the view’s not bad at all. Lotham, in a tight-fitting tank, is one good-looking man.

“Hang on, I’ll find some food to distract her. Be right back.”

“You’re leaving me alone with her?”