Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“A suspect?” Now Emmanuel is excited.

“Not necessarily. But close. We’re making progress. I promise, Emmanuel. There is nothing more important to me right now than your sister. Me, Detective Lotham, Officer O’Shaughnessy, we are on this. Full time, all the time, completely obsessed. Now, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I was. But then I heard the news. And I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t. I am outside now. There’s a no-cell-phones policy in the classrooms.” Emmanuel pauses. “I found something.”

“With the fake license? You decoded the number?” My turn for excitement.

“I can’t figure out the license number. It is something, but I’m not sure what. I have a friend with a computer program for algorithms. I’m taking it to him. But the other things, my mother’s birthday, the year of Haiti’s independence. LiLi misses my mom.”

I nod into the phone. He had mentioned this before.

“So . . . I got down my mother’s picture. And I opened it up.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I already tried that trick.

“There’s a piece of paper in the back. With a note from LiLi and a drawing from me. It is our offering to our manman . But this time, when I unfolded it, another slip of paper fell out.”

Now he has my attention. I’d just noted the sweet picture, never realizing it was on a folded scrap of paper. I’d been focused on locating evidence of more obvious crimes.

“It’s a receipt to an electronics store. Written across the top is a number. A phone number, in LiLi’s handwriting.”

“Emmanuel, do you have the receipt on you?”

“Yes.”

“Look at it. What did she purchase?”

“I already saw. A Tracfone.”

And just like that, I’m beyond excited. “Emmanuel, this is perfect! We know your sister had been using a burner phone, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But the police haven’t been able to do anything without a phone number. There’s nothing to trace, track, et cetera.”

“You can trace a Tracfone?”

“If it has GPS technology, yes you can. And these days, most of them do. It also has to be on at the moment of tracking.”

Emmanuel is getting it now. “The police, they could ping this number? Locate my sister? Just like that?”

“Assuming she has the phone on her.” I hesitate, just now seeing the flaw in my plan. “Which . . . may be a long shot. I’m assuming she bought the phone last fall?”

“August thirty-first.”

“I would guess it’s the one she used to communicate with Livia. Once Angelique disappeared, I don’t know if she would’ve kept the phone.” If she would’ve been allowed it, assuming she was being held against her will.

“Oh.” Emmanuel’s voice grows small. He’s a smart kid. He already understands what I’m not saying. What kind of kidnapper lets his victim keep her cell phone?

“But.” I do my best to rally. “There’s other information the police should be able to access, including previous calls, copies of texts, saved voice mails. There’s no telling how much we’ll learn from those alone. Including exactly what Angelique and Livia were up to.”

“Livia is dead,” Emmanuel says. His voice has definitely changed. He sounds flat, almost grim. Like a thirty-year-old man, versus a teen. “If she’s been killed . . .”

“We’re going to find your sister, Emmanuel. And you finding this receipt, that’s huge. Your sister’s talking, but you’re the one hearing. You get her messages.” My voice grows thick, despite myself. “You’re doing right by her, Emmanuel. I can’t . . .” My voice trails off. I have no words to tell him the power of this bond. I just hope he understands. Whatever happens next, it’s not his fault. It’s on me. And Detective Lotham. And neither one of us wants that kind of regret.

Though I can already picture Livia’s brother J.J. The kind of grief and rage that had the tattoos crawling across his skin. I would like to say we will do better, but fifteen dead bodies later, I don’t know. And it haunts me. Every case, every discovery, Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of her local lake, it all haunts me.

I force myself to speak: “I need you to contact Officer O’Shaughnessy. Let him know about the receipt. The police need it immediately.”

“I have it in a plastic bag,” Emmanuel says.

Which makes me smile. His very own evidence bag. He has been paying attention.

“Gleeson College,” I remind him, glancing at my watch. I need to get moving.

“I’ll look it up,” he promises.

“The site includes a photo with your sister, as well as one with Livia. Just so you know.”

“I’m good with websites. I should be able to learn more, especially if it’s new, and copied from other sites.”

“Thank you, Emmanuel. And just . . . keep an eye out. Okay? For your sister, for anything out of the ordinary.”

“I’m spending the afternoon at my friend’s.”

“Good. Sounds like a plan.”

Emmanuel ends the call, I remain standing on the corner, phone still in hand. I’m exhausted, I realize now. And overwhelmed, but also overstimulated. Hyperaware. Which makes me feel it. That itch between the shoulder blades. Someone is watching me. I turn in place, not caring if I’m being obvious. I have to know. I want to see him.

But I just spot random pedestrians walking down the street. One guy here. Two women there. It’s quiet this time of day. A little too late for lunch, a little too early to be headed home.

One last look, then I start walking to the larger boulevard. I’m going to have to flag down a taxi, burn through more precious dollars. But I’m running out of time.

Angelique’s running out of time.

I dial up Lotham and prepare for his next lecture.

I come flying into work right at three p.m., after having just enough time to dart upstairs, wash my hands and face, and clip back my hair. Perfectly ready. Not late at all. I hit the tables, grabbing chairs, flipping them to the floor. Spray, wipe, spray, wipe. Then behind the bar, drying trays of clean glasses, stacking them up. To the kitchen. Lemons, limes, and cutting board. Slice, peel, slice, peel. Garnish tray filled. Countertop sparkling. Peanut bowls filled, ketchup bottles topped off. Beer kegs properly pressurized.

Ten minutes left, I attack the shelves of booze, pulling down each bottle, furiously wiping everything, then lining the bottles back up in perfect order. I scrub down the edge of the shelves, touch up the mirrored backdrop.

When I turn around, Stoney is standing there, staring at me.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“My head hurts.”

“Heard they found a girl’s body.”

“Livia Samdi. The other missing girl.” I falter, my hands falling to the countertop. “She was murdered.”

Stoney waits.

“I’ve been trying so hard to figure out the missing pieces, to reconstruct the trail that will lead us to both Livia and Angelique. But I didn’t make it in time. Once again, I’m too late.” I hate the raw edge to my voice, but I can’t stop it. These cases shouldn’t be personal to me. But they are. That’s the thing I can’t help, and Paul couldn’t understand.

Stoney waits.

“I just . . . I want to get it right,” I confess in a rush. “I want to be the one who brings home the missing loved one. I want to be there for the parade of hugs and sheer relief. Fourteen cases later, I need to get it right.”

“Angelique Badeau is still alive,” Stoney states.

“As far as we know.”

“Then you still got a job to do.” Stoney holds up his key ring.

I get his drift. Working out there, working in here. Livia is gone. But Angelique still needs me. Charlie would approve of this strategy. Focus on the souls you can still save.