Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“Girl’s spent most of her life here. You think she wants to go back?”

“Her mother still lives there,” I say, then add hastily, “At least that’s what I read.”

Viv rolls her eyes at me, pointing the metal flipper at the stack of white plates. Belatedly, I put down my half-eaten dinner, quickly wash my hands, and get back to plating. Viv bangs out the fries.

“The missing girl has a brother and aunt here. If she wanted to stay in the U.S., why leave them?” I ask, splitting buns onto the plates. “Now she’s all alone.” Viv tosses on the patties, I quickly add toppings. No custom orders, I’d already realized. Stoney ran a tight ship.

Viv gestures for two more plates. She splits the fry basket of chicken wings between the two, then adds more fries to all. From next to the silverware, she grabs a plastic squeeze bottle and squirts a deep red sauce into tiny bowls for dipping. The sauce smells slightly of barbecue, but is thinner, spicier.

“Your secret sauce?” I question.

“Stoney handles the wing sauce. Mine’s for sandwiches.”

“Do I get to invent one?”

“Gotta earn your stripes. ’Sides, what does a skinny girl like you know of cooking?”

“Not much.” Especially given that I hadn’t owned pots and pans, let alone a house, in nearly a decade.

I splay out three plates along one arm, grab the fourth in my right hand, and whirl out the door for delivery. Stoney nods his acknowledgment as he pours a beer at the tap, then jerks his chin toward a new ticket. I grab the order for more wings, then return to the kitchen, where Viv is already back to grilling.

“Pretty girl like that,” Viv says, returning to the subject of Angelique. “I’m guessing a boy. She falls in love. Doesn’t want to leave him. So off they go.”

“Wouldn’t there be two missing kids, then?”

“Assuming he’s a kid. Again, pretty girl like that.”

Viv raises a good point. The family insisted Angelique didn’t have a boyfriend, but as I’d already learned many times, the family is often the last to know. Better source of info on a teenage girl? Her friends.

I’m sure the police questioned them, too, but here’s one area where I have the advantage: Plenty of people don’t feel comfortable talking to cops. Whereas I’m just some random lady asking questions. Odd, but not threatening. Tracking down Angelique’s best buds will be one of my first projects tomorrow. After getting some sleep.

Now, I gulp down the rest of my dinner, then tend to my plate. The kitchen is too small for a commercial dishwasher, but the powerful spray nozzle over the deep stainless-steel basin is blistering enough to sanitize just about anything.

“Need any more help?” I ask Viv, drying my hands.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“I’ll see you then.” I hesitate. Time to head upstairs, my first night in my new room, with my new roommate. “Chicken livers?” I question.

Viv cackles. “No worries. Your roomie is out for the night.”

“She has a social life?”

“She has a job. Rodent control. Why do you think Stoney keeps her around?”

“I was hoping he had a soft spot for strays.”

“Hah. He’s not called Stoney for nothin’.”

I linger a moment longer. I like the kitchen, Viv’s companionship. It’s warm and cozy. Easy.

Then again, easy has never suited me.

A parting smile for Viv, then I determinedly head up the stairs. Home sweet home. I feel the booze beast stirring restlessly in my belly, triggered by my anxiety. Not tonight, I tell it. Tonight I’m strong enough. Tomorrow I will find a meeting.

I unlock the door to my new room, close and latch it behind me. Quick check under the bed. No sign of the cat. I take a moment to unpack my few belongings, set up my toothbrush, toothpaste. A ritual performed so many times, it leaves me both comforted and exhausted.

New town, new job, new case.

“Why are you doing this?” Paul demanded. “Why can’t I be enough for you?”

Me, standing there, unable to answer.

“You’re an addict.” He answered his own question bitterly. “That’s why. There will always be something you need more, some high you have to chase. Jesus, Frankie. I love you.”

Me, still standing there, unable to answer.

Paul turning away. Paul walking away.

Me, not following.

Now, I change into the boxer shorts and worn T-shirt I wear for bed. I snap off the lights, then crawl beneath the sheets, which feel scratchy and unfamiliar against my skin.

The beast stirring again.

“Shhh,” I whisper. To my racing mind, to my dangerous thirst. “Shhh . . .”

Then I close my eyes and will myself to sleep.

Later, I wake up with tears on my cheeks.

Later still, I rise to consciousness enough to register a rumbling weight on my chest and glowing green eyes staring down at me. “Shhh,” I mumble again, then tumble back into the tumult of my dreams.

When I wake up the next morning there’s no sign of Piper anywhere on the bed. I yawn, stretch, note the time. Nine a.m. Late by some standards, but not for someone who often works till three in the morning. I crawl across my mattress far enough to part the heavy black curtains and peer out the window. The crack of light is so bright I nearly recoil. Clearly a beautiful fall day. It should cheer me up. Instead, I feel slightly hungover, the aftereffects of lousy sleep and bad dreams. Not the first time, won’t be the last.

I step off the bed. A white-tipped paw lashes out from beneath the mattress and rakes open claws across the heel of my bare foot. I howl, hop, bang into the edge of the kitchen counter, swear a blue streak. At least I now know where my roommate is.

I move to the end of the bed, where I gingerly lift up the edge of the blankets and peer beneath. Green eyes regard me balefully. Piper sits just under the mattress, in the perfect position to strike.

“Really?” I ask her.

She yawns, flashing sharp white teeth. Then she innocently sets about grooming herself.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be.” Yesterday I hadn’t been able to make out her coloring. Now I can tell she is mostly gray, with mottled splashes of orange, and a white chest and paws. She’s not huge, but clearly dangerous enough. Time to start sleeping in socks, I decide, then hobble to the kitchen sink, where I bang out water, dampen a paper towel, and blot at my bleeding heel. The scratches aren’t deep. More of a shot across the bow.

“You’re not scaring me off that easily,” I inform the shape under the bed.

I head to the ancient shower. Ten minutes later, shivering slightly from a spray that was more lukewarm than hot, I scrape my long hair back into a ponytail, fasten my fancy multi-tool clips to each side, then dab on facial moisturizer. The face looking back at me from the mirror isn’t young or fresh or pretty. I have lean features, plain brown eyes, a dusting of freckles across my nose. Twenty years ago, my complexion may have glowed, but too many years of boozing have taken their toll. Even with moisturizer I have fine lines creasing my eyes, my brow, the corners of my mouth.

I look tired, I think, that kind of weariness where no amount of rest will ever make a difference. I finger my chin, feeling the prickle of random hairs that hadn’t been there ten years ago, the soft pouch of skin sagging beneath my jawline. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Some sign of the girl I used to be, or some proof of the woman I am now?

I wish sometimes I could see myself the way Paul did, all those years ago.

By the end, he wished the same.

I pull away from the mirror, exit the curtained-off bathroom.