Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

“No.”

“Screw with the family, mess up our case—”

“What case?”

“Fuck you!” He closes the gap between us, his arms out, posture aggressive whether he means it or not. He’s bigger than me. Stronger, angrier. But it doesn’t scare me. As a matter of fact, I like that about him. He should be pissed off. He should be protective of the family. It proves he cares. Though it worries me, too. Because police incompetence would’ve been an easy answer to this puzzle. And so far, Detective Lotham doesn’t strike me as either burned out or lazy.

So what happened to a smart, shy teenager? She’d once stood right about where I am standing now. And then?

“I’ll be in touch,” I inform Detective Lotham.

His dark eyes nearly bulge out of his head with outrage. I smile. I’ll be the first to admit that these kind of high-conflict moments aren’t always fun for other people. And yet, they’ve always been fun for me.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” I say now, stepping back. “But you also can’t stop me. So the real question is, do you want me running around on my own, or do you want to assert some control by offering a level of cooperation? That choice is yours. Either way, I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do. And that’s find Angelique Badeau.”

“You’re nuts.”

“A little bit of crazy never hurt.”

“Asking the wrong questions can.”

He has a point there. Another bell, ringing from inside the technical institute. This one is followed by more noise. The stir of hundreds of kids, squeaking back chairs, popping open doors, stomping down halls. Lunch break. Which brings me back to my original task, and yet another reason to ditch official police presence.

I signal my departure with a wave, then head back toward the street corner. Detective Lotham stays where he is, watching me go.

I disappear into the student traffic as it expels from the academy’s front doors and pours down the steps. I count to five. When I look back, the detective is no longer in sight. Just as I’d hoped.

I allow myself a single smile. Then I go back to work.

CHAPTER 7

Teenagers are loud. It feels to me like there are hundreds of them, swarming across the street, forming smaller pools on the sidewalk, then flooding into the corner grocer. No school uniforms. The kids wear ripped jeans or spandex tights, paired with sports tops, flannel shirts, or long fall sweaters. All in all, I’m not dressed that differently. Which, given the age gap, is probably not a good thing.

I try to focus on the girls, parsing out individual faces. Guerline listed Angelique’s BFFs as Kyra and Marjolie. Unfortunately, I have no idea what they look like. Detective Lotham and his cohorts have most likely vacuumed Angelique’s social media accounts for every crumb of information by now. They should know her life inside and out, from her family and friends to her favorite foods, zodiac sign, and nervous habits. I have none of that. At least not yet.

I consider myself old-school. I talk to people, versus reading tweets. I ask questions, versus consulting forensic reports. Obviously, it’s harder for me to get that kind of access. On the other hand, by the time I arrive on scene—months, maybe years later—none of those leads has made a difference. So I stick to my Tracfone and my gumshoe spirit.

I pick a place near the epicenter of teenville and resume my recon. The student population is the most diverse I’ve seen in a bit. Dozens of African Americans interspersed with pockets of Indian, Latin, and Asian kids. I think most are speaking English, but given that I can’t follow any of the conversations, it appears to be some dialect known only by teens. I notice that other pedestrians are now crossing the street to avoid the mass of high schoolers. I don’t blame them.

Angelique was fifteen at the time of her disappearance. It follows that her friends would’ve been fifteen then as well, making them sixteen now. So two sixteen-year-old girls. Except most of the females in this crowd look to be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-one. Did I ever look that fresh and pretty?

In high school, I’d never been one to hang with groups or join teams. My father told me I was a free spirit, but really I was awkward and self-conscious. Until I had a couple of beers. Then the world was my oyster. I fucked the quarterback, blew off classes, and danced with abandon.

I remember feeling like my hometown was too small and my skin too tight and I wanted to simultaneously burst upon the world and lock myself inside my room. I loved my drunken, irresponsible father. I hated my demanding, critical mother. I wished for bigger boobs and a smaller waist and that girl’s hair and this girl’s gorgeous skin. Whatever I had wasn’t what I wanted. But what did I want? I had no idea.

These poor kids, I think now. Like this whole age isn’t confusing enough without adding in a missing classmate.

Yellow ribbons. It takes me a minute to spot the pattern. Not just a random accessory pinned to one girl’s top or stuck on one guy’s shoulder, but half a dozen of them attached to various students.

In honor of Angelique, has to be. Last winter, most of the student body probably had worn them. But now, one month into the start of a new school year without any fresh developments . . .

Her friends would still be making the effort.

I spy two ribbon-wearing girls standing side by side in animated conversation with a third teen. One of the girls has beautiful Black skin, high cheekbones, and thickly lashed eyes. She is clutching the blue straps of her backpack on her shoulders, her gaze constantly working the street even as she chatters away with her classmates.

Hypervigilant. I know how that feels.

I work my way through the cluster of kids. A few nod. Most cast suspicious glances. I’m definitely persona non grata. I close in on the trio of girls. The restless one notes my approach first. Her dark eyes narrow. She stops talking, then whacks the girl closest to shut up.

Bit by bit, the kids nearest to us fall into wary silence. I feel like a gazelle, walking through a pack of lions. Same rules of survival apply. Make no sudden moves. Show no fear.

I come to a halt in front of the strap-clutching girl. She stares straight at me, expression already set.

“Marjolie? Kyra?” I ask.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Frankie Elkin. I’m here to find Angelique.”

The girl laughs. It’s a harsh sound. “Lady, if you’re looking for the suburbs, you already made, like, four wrong turns.”

“Kyra?” I guess.

The shorter girl next to her startles. My target rolls her eyes. “Marjolie. But nice try.”

She’s lying. I know that instantly. Both by her tone and by the response of the kids around us. Some are surprised, but most are smirking. A challenge for the crazy lady, who’s clearly dumb as shit to think she can barge into their world demanding answers for things she can’t possibly know anything about.

I know how to take a hit. Now is not the time for fighting back.

“Angelique’s aunt Guerline suggested I speak with both of you. If I could have a moment . . .”

The third girl backs up and away, but Kyra and Marjolie remain planted.

“Gotta get back to school,” the tall girl states. Her dark hair is fixed into a complicated mix of braids, pulled back from her face and fashioned into a wrapped crown, which further emphasizes her stunning cheekbones. The girl is drop-dead gorgeous. Never an easy trait in a best friend.

“Ten minutes.” I gesture to the ribbon she has pinned to her deep purple top. “Or is that just for show?”

“Fuck you.”

The shorter girl stirs. She’s pretty but not stunning. No doubt she and Angelique formed the background for their flashier friend. But that also meant of the three, she and Angelique shared the tighter bond.