Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

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.

After all this time on the road, I’ve developed a uniform. Two pairs of worn jeans, one pair of cargo pants, and one pair of black yoga pants. I have three short-sleeved tops and three long-sleeved, all interchangeable. My olive-green canvas jacket is medium weight—it lacks the lining needed for winter wear but should get me through the next month. It’s easy enough to add a scarf or gloves if I need them. For shoes, I have one pair of sneakers and one pair of sturdy brown boots. Seven pairs of underwear, definitely on the dingy side. Seven pairs of socks, each a bit more worn than the last. I should stay here long enough to build the cash reserve necessary to refresh my wardrobe. But most of that depends on Angelique Badeau.

So far, I’m understanding why the media reports on her disappearance were thin and vague. There’s no narrative. Angelique was a good girl. She might have run away. She might have had her backpack stolen. She might have abandoned it herself after changing into fresh clothes.

Who was this girl? What happened to her in the middle of one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Boston?

And nearly a year later, how can she remain vanished without a trace?

I finish lacing my tennis shoes, then fill a bowl with water and place it on the floor. Stoney had said the cat needed nothing, but that feels weird to me.

I grab my key, slide my Tracfone as well as my photo ID and a modest amount of cash into my coat’s inner pockets. Then I head out in search of breakfast.

—

I locate the nearest coffee shop, which turns out to be a vivid pink-and-orange Dunkin’ Donuts. I haven’t been to one in forever, but I remember the coffee as being excellent, the donuts okay. One large-coffee-loaded-with-cream-and-sugar later, I take a seat next to the window overlooking Morton Avenue and start planning out my day.

While I’d asked Guerline Violette to pass along my contact info to her friendly neighborhood cop, Ricardo, I don’t feel like waiting for the phone to ring. Instead I call the B-3 Boston PD field office and request to speak with Officer Ricardo, community liaison. There’s a pause.

“You mean Officer O’Shaughnessy?”

“Ricardo O’Shaughnessy?” Now I’m confused.

The phone attendant chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “Haitian liaison officer? We have a number of designated community contacts. Puerto Rican, LGBTQ, El Salvadoran?”

For a moment, I’m genuinely flummoxed. Most of the backwoods towns I’ve visited have been doing good to employ one or two officers to handle everything, let alone specialists for each community group. It’s a whole new world out here, I guess.

I confirm Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy, then provide my name and number. As for my message, I hesitate, then state: “I’m calling with the permission of Guerline Violette to follow up on Angelique’s disappearance.”

I say it just like that. As if I know exactly what I’m talking about, maybe I’m even an old friend of the family.

The operator doesn’t comment, just jots it all down. I leave my phone sitting out on the sticky tabletop while I nurse my large coffee and jot a list of initial questions I want answered. I’ve just underlined cell phone three times—I noticed two cellular provider stores last night, and what kind of teenager abandons her old phone without at least attempting to pick up another?—when my Tracfone rings.

I answer it quickly, discovering Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy on the other end, not sounding happy.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Frankie Elkin—”

“What’s your angle? You looking for money? Cuz you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“If we could meet in person—”

“This is horseshit. The family has been through enough.”

“I’m here to help.”

Snort. “Listen—”

“Meet me.” My turn to interject. “Just five minutes. Jot down my driver’s license number, general description, anything you need to check me out. But I’m sure when Guerline called you this morning, she said I had her permission to talk to you. For her sake, grant me at least a quick introduction. Then allow me one question. That’s all. One question, then I’ll leave you alone.”

Another dubious snort, followed by silence. If Officer O’Shaughnessy truly cares about the family or the investigation, he’ll feel compelled to interrogate me. His suspicion, my entry point.

Another moment, then a heavy sigh. “You know Le Foyer?”

“Sure.” I have no idea.

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“Absolutely.”

He hangs up, which gives me a moment to chug my coffee, grab my notes, then approach the six employees clustered behind the serving counter, eyeing the white chick with open curiosity.

“Le Foyer?” I ask hopefully.

Four out of the six raise their hands. I offer up my map. The manager, an imposing-looking woman whose name tag identifies her as Charadee, takes my map, jots down some notes, then hands it over. And just like that, I’m off and running again.

—

I’m learning quickly that Boston isn’t a town of neat and orderly streets. Instead, the lines on my map have me taking a diagonal here to a diagonal there. I stop and consult my directions often.

Walking down the sidewalks during daylight is a very different experience from last night. For one thing, I hardly see any other souls. For another, several of the winding streets offer rows of well-maintained freestanding homes, most looking straight out of the ’50s and many with cars that I only wish I could afford parked on the driveway. I pass a blue-painted house whose white trim is decorated with cutout hearts, then a front porch with intricate red-and-gold woodwork carved into the shape of flowers. There is also more green space than I expected, from tended yards to community gardens to grassy parks.

I don’t feel nervous at all walking down these streets. In fact, I’m beginning to think this quaint neighborhood might be one of the best-kept secrets in Boston. Maybe there’s a whole other reason the locals want to scare outsiders away. This kind of charming, affordable housing I’d certainly want to keep to myself.

I’m just coming to the major intersection with Blue Hill Avenue when I pass a tall chain-link fence to my left. I’m thinking automotive repair shop, when I catch the first whiff. My feet stop on their own. I inhale a second time. Pastry dough, sugar, spice. My stomach is already grumbling as I realize the setback brick building is my target. Le Foyer Bakery. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’m in.

I don’t know what Officer O’Shaughnessy looks like. I’m guessing I’ll recognize him by his uniform. As for me, I’m the only white person I’ve seen this morning, so I’m guessing I’m easy to spot as well.