Before She Disappeared

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.

“Please,” I say quietly. I spread my hands in a show of submission. “Just a couple of questions.” I direct my gaze at the tall stunner. “Kyra.” I address her directly just so she knows that I know that she’s already lied to me.

The shorter girl, Marjolie, gazes up at her friend. Her glossy black hair is a riot of unbelievably tiny ringlets. It’s a nice fit with her round face, clear brown eyes. I want to lean in and tell her that she’s beautiful, too, but I already know that’s not how the world feels to her. Her friend is gorgeous. She’s cute. Kyra leads, Marjolie follows. She must miss Angelique terribly.

“Fine,” Kyra exclaims suddenly. “But you’re wasting your time.”

“Because Angelique doesn’t want to be found?”

“Because we don’t need some skinny-ass white lady trying to save her soul by slumming it in the ghetto. Come on, have you looked in a mirror? This ain’t your neighborhood.” She delivers this with the kind of disdain only a teenager can muster.

I take the second hit, surrendering the battle but focusing on the war as I lead Kyra and Marjolie away from the pack. Their classmates have already grown bored with the show. My initial appearance had been interesting, but Angelique’s case is old news. Nothing of interest here.

“How long have you known Angelique?” I ask casually.

“Six years.” Marjolie speaks first, her voice soft, her gaze cast down. “I live near her in Mattapan. My family is Haitian, too.”

Kyra shrugs. “Two years, when we both started at Boston Academy. I used to steal Angel’s notes. Eventually she began giving them to me. Told me she never minded helping a friend. So then, you know, we became friends. Angel’s like’s that. She has this way . . .” Kyra shrugs again. “She’s way too good to be, like, missing, you know? But she’s got hidden reserves. She’s gonna come home, just you wait and see.” Kyra’s nostrils flare. I get the impression this has been a lot of words for her, and she meant every one of them. Beside her, Marjolie is nodding.

“I’ve worked fourteen missing persons cases,” I volunteer. “All around the country. Missing kids, missing adults. You know the one thing they all had in common?”

The girls wait. I have their attention now.

“The victims’ own families, even the ones they loved and who loved them, still didn’t know them. Not all the pieces, the jagged edges, the still-forming dreams. I think in the end, no parent or sibling truly can. That’s where friends come in. Angelique’s aunt, her brother, they see what they’ve always seen, combined with what they want to see. But you two . . . You knew Angelique. You are the family she chose for herself.”

Marjolie looks like she’s going to cry. Even Kyra has lost her edge. She appears younger. Less certain. She glances at Marjolie, who now appears scared. Why scared?

A bell rings, shrill and insistent. Behind us, the kids begin gathering up their belongings.

I make it quick. “Did Angelique have enemies at school? Kids who threatened her? Kids she threatened?”

“We stuck together,” Kyra says. “Watched each other’s backs. And don’t you go talking smack about my girl—Angel never threatened no one in her life.”

“What about gangs?”

“No way. Academy’s neutral ground. Principal Bastion says first time she catches wind of a gang sign or threat, that’s it, we’ll be wearing school uniforms.”

I translate that to mean the uniforms are the threat, and Kyra and her peers are taking it seriously.

Marjolie adds, “Angel wasn’t the kind to call attention to herself. She’s woke, you know. Sensitive to others, but unlike some others who always gotta be making a fuss.” She and Kyra exchange knowing glances. Marjolie continues. “Most of the kids in our school, they didn’t even know Angel’s name till the police showed up asking questions.”

I understand about half of what Marjolie said, but with the sea of kids preparing to exit, now is not the time. “Boyfriend?” I prod.

The girls exchange a glance. Marjolie is uncomfortable. Kyra sets her jaw.

“Yes, Angel had a boyfriend,” I fill in.

“No,” Kyra corrects. “At least . . .”

“We don’t know,” Marjolie clarifies quickly. “Angel came back to school last year . . . different. We teased her—”

“Had to be a boy,” Kyra interjects flatly.

“She said no—”

“Lost the big V. Still think so.” Kyra glances haughtily at her friend. “Not gonna convince me otherwise. Good for her.”

“She would’ve told us,” Marjolie insists. “Why keep it a secret?”

“Maybe he’s batshit ugly.”

Marjolie huffs out a breath, turns to me. “Kyra just likes to pretend she knows Angel the best. Summer before last year, I was the one who spent two months with Angel at the rec center; there were no boys. I mean, no one special.”

“Did Angelique have a job?”

“Babysitting. But she also helped out with her brother, so it’s not like she had tons of time.”

“But you’re saying she returned to school in the fall different? How so?”

More exchanged glances.

“I think Stella found her groove,” Kyra drawled.

Marjolie shook her head. “She was just—”

“Distracted. Big-time.” Kyra again. “She started giving me class notes with only half the material. And when I asked, it was like she didn’t even know. She’d, like, space out or something. From Mrs. Brain Trust to Mrs. Wish You Were Here.”

“Did she seem scared distracted? Or dreamy distracted?”

“Distant,” Marjolie murmured. “She seemed distant, but also like . . . more solidly herself. Like she was alone, even when she was with us, but to her, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.”

I think I understand. Together but separate. I know that feeling well.

Across the street, the bell tones at a more insistent volume. The girls edge toward the street. Their classmates are already departing, exhorting fierce gravitational pull. I speak faster.

“She changed her clothes that Friday after school. Do you know why?”

Both girls shake their heads, take a couple more steps. I quickly follow.

“Did you see her after she changed? Maybe she’d put on a dress, date clothes?”

More negative head shakes. More shifting sideways.

“Okay, okay, one last question, side door of the school. The one you guys use for smuggling in contraband, how do you prop it open? Is there a rock, stick, pencil for jamming the lock?”

Both girls startle, stare at me.

“You need to go, I need answers. Quick.”

My insistent tone, combined with the demanding bell, does the trick.

“Can’t prop it open,” Marjolie murmurs rapidly, voice low. “The janitor checks. Kids bring a friend or two. Couple of kids do the spotting, while the third runs out and grabs . . . whatever.”

“So when Angelique went back into the school Friday afternoon, which of you held the door?”

Kyra and Marjolie draw up short, faces paling.

“What?” Marjolie asks first.

“The police know she reentered the school using the side door in order to change her clothes. Then she hid her backpack. The police already know that. You’re not ratting her out. Please. Eleven months is long enough. It’s time to put it all on the line.”

“The police never mentioned—” Kyra, already sounding angry.

“The police don’t disclose information. But I can. Help me, and I’ll keep you informed.” I’m begging, pleading. One last shrill alarm from inside the school, followed by cars honking on the street, where we’re now holding up traffic.

I want to grab Marjolie’s arm but will myself not to. They know something. Not about the side door, which has appeared to catch them completely off guard. But about the new Angelique who returned from summer vacay. I need to know that something. Detective Lotham has his surveillance videos. I have this.

“It wasn’t us,” Marjolie says suddenly. “We didn’t do it. We didn’t even know she went back inside. When the police said they found her backpack on the school grounds, we wondered.” She flickers a glance a Kyra. “But we honestly had no idea.”

“We’re her friends,” Kyra mutters stiffly. “Her best friends.”

“Then I have to ask again—who are her enemies?” More honking, while the last of the bell fades away.

“The police are wrong,” Kyra declares flatly. “Angel wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t keep secrets, she wouldn’t backstab her friends, and she sure as hell—” Whatever the girl is about to say, she bites it off. One last glare at me, then she grabs Marjolie’s hand and they both bolt for the academy steps.

I’m alone in the middle of the street with plenty of cars willing to tell me about it. I take the first step back toward the sidewalk, still thinking.

They’re lying. Angel’s friends, her brother—they all know more than they’re saying. And yet they also seem genuinely concerned and want her back. Meaning?

I make a quick stop in the corner market to grab water and dash a bunch of notes in my spiral notebook. Then I realize I need to do some hustling of my own in order to get to work on time.

I exit the grocer and round the corner to what I hope is the correct bus stop, casting a glance over my shoulder out of sheer habit.

Which is when I see him. A tall, skinny Black male standing across the way, staring straight at me. At least six foot four. Anywhere from late twenties to late thirties. Wearing a blue nylon tracksuit, with a thick gold chain around his neck, like he last got dressed in the early 2000s.

Cars zoom between us. When they’ve passed, he’s gone. But the shiver of unease follows me back to the bar.