Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

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Stoney leads me upstairs. At first glance, the tiny, single-room setup is exactly what I’d expect from an apartment in an overcrowded, economically depressed neighborhood. Double bed shoved against the far wall. Lone nightstand to one side, tightly drawn black curtains on the other. A metal rod bolted to the wall serves as a closet opposite the bed, while next to the front door is a small kitchenette with a European-size fridge and a microwave. No oven, but a coffeemaker and a hot pot, which suits me fine. On the other side of the door is a plain white curtain wrapped around a curved rod attached to the ceiling, much like a hospital room setup. A quick look behind the curtain reveals a bathroom with the world’s skinniest standing shower and a minuscule mounted sink. Again, City Living 101. Not much space or privacy, but priced right.

Not to mention, the room is unerringly clean, while the bed is topped with a surprising colorful handmade quilt. Again, there’s more to Stoney then meets the eye.

I glance around. “Where’s my roommate?”

“She’s not social.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Piper.”

“And this is her room?”

He shrugs. “Suits her.”

I’m still not sure what to make of this. In theory I like cats. But Stoney’s words of warning have made me cautious. I wheel my bag to the center of the creaking old floor, then pause.

I bend over, carefully lift the quilt, and peer under the bed.

It takes me a moment, then I spy a pair of glowing green eyes regarding me balefully from the far corner. It’s too dark to make out her build or coloring. I have more an impression of pure hostility.

“Piper,” I acknowledge.

She flattens her ears and growls low in her throat, followed by a distinct hiss. I take the hint, drop the quilt.

“Okay then.”

Stoney is already turning back to the hallway.

“Hang on. Cat food, water, litter box, what do I need to know?”

“Nothing. Piper takes care of herself. She’s not stupid. Just hates people.”

“How long has she lived here?”

Stoney scratches his beard. “Long enough.”

“You took her in off the street?”

“She came in off the street.” Stoney gestures to the open door, which I now realize has a small pet-sized hole cut out. “Piper heads downstairs at night, patrols for mice. She’s got food, water, and litter box in the basement. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Um, we didn’t talk start day.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel a bit panicky. Not about being alone with a cat. So then about being alone? Except I’m alone all the time. It’s my way of life. No reason to balk at it now.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Oh, door lock isn’t so great. Got a computer in that bag, I’d hide it before you leave each day.”

I nod.

“Hot water comes and goes. Mostly goes.”

“Okay.”

“No smoking.”

“I don’t.”

“No guns.”

“I don’t.”

“And in the event of trouble?”

“I rely on my charming personality.”

He grunts. “I keep a baseball bat behind the bar. In the event your wit fails.”

“Good to know.”

Final nod, then he’s clearly ready to get back to his customers down below. Leaving me and the feral cat.

He surprises me by turning back at the last minute. “Come on down when you’re ready and help yourself to some food. I don’t have time to wait on a nonpaying customer, but you can make yourself a sandwich. I keep all the fixings on hand.”

It’s the most words he’s spoken to me. I wonder if Piper received the same offer when she showed up. Maybe Stoney has a thing for strays. Or maybe, like most bartenders, he recognizes a lost soul when he sees one.

I nod my thanks. He leaves. I remain standing in the middle of my new home. For weeks? Months? I have no idea. Beginning is the hardest part. And though I’ve done this before, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed.

Which makes the dark beast of my addiction stir in my belly, opening a single eye to survey the opportunity. While I’m downstairs making a sandwich, I could pour a beer. Or even better, vodka, tequila, whiskey straight up. Something potent and searing that would turn my muscles into liquid and chase all my fears away.

I think of Paul. I feel the familiar pain squeezing my chest. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Then, I leave my suitcase to the mercy of a feral cat and, as long as it’s still light out, head back to the street, where I consult my printed map again, and the red X that marks Angelique’s aunt’s house.

I resume walking, aware once more of all the eyes falling upon me, and the deepening chill whispering up my neck. I keep my head up, my shoulders back. I smile in greeting. I tell myself I’m strong enough.

And I pray this time that I really am.

CHAPTER 3

All I know about this area is what I looked up prior to arrival. Mattapan is densely populated, more than thirty-five thousand people crammed into apartments, city housing, and so-called triple-deckers. The majority of the people are immigrants, which adds splashes of ethnic food and specialty hair salons. There are small pockets of Latin and Asian Americans, as well as an even smaller cluster of Caucasians.

Google Earth revealed some shocks of green space amid the mass of overcrowded streets—Harambee Park, the Franklin Park Zoo, and the Boston Nature Center. Not being accustomed to city life, I’d probably be more comfortable in those areas, but I can barely afford a single room with a hostile cat over a bar. An apartment with a view is out of the question.

My primary concern is the area’s crime stats. Half a dozen stabbings a week, not to mention the monthly shootings and annual homicide rate. Gang activity mostly, but predators are predators, and as a middle-aged woman I’m not particularly intimidating.

The best I can do, as I start navigating the confusing mishmash of city streets, is utilize basic personal safety rules. One, I don’t carry anything of value. No smartphone, no electronics, no purse. I have the world’s stupidest Tracfone, which is one of the reasons I’m old-school when it comes to research and navigation. In lieu of a purse, I have my driver’s license and a couple of bills jammed deep into my front pocket. Some kid wants to demand all my worldly goods, have it. You can’t take from someone things she gave up a long time ago.

Tucked into my jacket pocket is a red rape whistle, because there are worse things than muggings. I also wear stainless-steel “tactical clips” in my hair. Each boasts tiny saw teeth, a wrench, a ruler, and a minuscule screwdriver for the low, low price of $3.99. I have no idea if hair clips can really be that effective and hope I never have to find out.

Finally, I have my necklace, a plain gold cross, picked up at a pawn shop years ago and now worn tucked under my shirt. Again, sometimes the simplest things remain the best deterrent.

Another trick—attach myself to others when possible. Predators prefer the lone game, so don’t look too lonely.

This time of evening, that strategy is easy to accomplish. Five p.m., buses are screeching to a stop, disgorging piles of weary locals grateful to be heading home. The sun is still out but lower in the sky, a fall breeze starting to kick up, carrying with it the stench of diesel, grime, and human sweat.

I catch the occasional whiff of fried food and savory spices. My stomach rumbles again. I’ve never eaten Haitian food. Judging by the smell, however, I’m looking forward to trying it.

For now, I keep hoofing it. I don’t really understand Boston’s mass transit yet and I have at least a mile to cover, from Stoney’s place to the side street where Angelique’s aunt lives. Everywhere I look are tired buildings and worn faces. Bit by bit, I start to parse it out. The groups of teens with thousand-yard stares, peering out sullenly from beneath their hooded sweatshirts. The wide streets jammed with brake lights and blaring horns. Intermittent booms of music, from reggae to rap, blasting out of various vehicles. A crowd of older Black men, probably returning from a local construction project given the dust on their clothes, laugh and clap one another on the back, grateful for the end of the workday.