Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 18

I pop upstairs to my apartment to clean up before work. And possibly, though I don’t want to get carried away, because I’m worried about Piper. But given that I’m greeted with a giant ball of vomit in the middle of the floor, I can see my concerns are misplaced. I check under the bed, and sure enough, glowing green eyes stare back at me.

“We need to discuss your communication style,” I inform her.

She blinks slowly.

“I find the gutted mice and pile of ick to be passive aggressive. If you need a bit of personal space, just say so.”

She yawns, flashing canines. Maybe her communication style is direct, and I just don’t like the message.

I get out the paper towels and mop up the mess.

Tomorrow, I’ll hit the grocery store, I promise myself. After I survive my work shift, attend an AA meeting, and . . . well, whatever comes next with the good detective.

I really wouldn’t mind a night of mad, passionate sex.

Then again, I’m not convinced Lotham is the type who can handle the morning after.

I sigh heavily. Scrub my hands and face, rake a comb through my hair, then report downstairs for work.

Stoney is his usual silent self. I appreciate that today. My mind is racing. For all my big words to Lotham, I hate having this many questions. Livia and Angelique. Angelique and Livia. Am I being too naïve? Maybe instead of secret besties, they were lovers and Angelique wasn’t ready to disclose her sexuality to the world?

In my experience, teenagers today are pretty open-minded about these things. Certainly compared to my generation. Though maybe sexual orientation isn’t as accepted in Haitian culture? Or in Angelique’s family? How do I ask that question?

It matters, though. What is the relationship between Angelique and Livia, and what drove both of them to disappear within months of each other?

Us. Help us.

And again, just how many people is us? Is a presumed runaway girl the end of that question, or just the beginning?

The knowledge of a second missing teen does help with some answers. For example, Angelique’s obvious autonomy to move around the city, but her continued need for secrecy and refusal to come home. Human trafficking 101 is to play the girls off one another. You can have freedom for the night. But one false move, and your friend will pay the price. Given Angelique’s reputation for caretaking, she would be particularly vulnerable to such control tactics. Especially if Livia was a new friend, more-than-friend, whom she wouldn’t want to betray.

Meaning that eleven months later, Angelique had acquired some level of trust and independence from her kidnappers—while remaining terrified for her safety, and the safety of at least one other girl.

Angelique didn’t believe in dreams, Emmanuel had said. She believed in making plans. Like sending a coded message. Like appearing at a major wireless store where maybe she hoped she’d be captured on security cameras. Two sightings in two weeks.

Whatever her plan was, it involved a definite sense of urgency. Meaning what had changed? What was about to happen if we didn’t pick up on her trail of breadcrumbs and fast?

I unstack chairs, wipe tabletops, slice up lemons and limes, and still come no closer to any answers. Clearly Angelique is trying to communicate. Unfortunately, I still didn’t get the message.

Viv appears through the front door. She stops when she sees me.

“I hear you’re looking for that poor missing girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You some kind of private eye?”

“I’m gonna go with some kind.”

She hums her approval in her Viv-like way. “Honey, no child should be missing from her family. Any way I can help, you let me know.”

“Do you know the Samdi family? Their daughter is Livia.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I can ask around. Mattapan ain’t that big, but it’s crowded enough. Was a time when I felt like I knew my neighbors, but not anymore.”

Viv disappears into the kitchen, hollering out a greeting to Stoney, who grunts in reply. I just finish setting up the bar in time for the first few customers to arrive. I already recognize a few of the regulars, and no longer earn so many dark scowls. I take that as progress as I start banging out drinks and delivering plates of hot food.

I keep myself busy. I tell myself I’m not glancing at the door every time it opens. I promise myself I’m not some giddy schoolgirl anxiously waiting for her crush to appear.

It doesn’t really work, but thankfully the combination of cheap beer and low-priced food has the tables filled and the orders coming. I’m a good bartender. I like the steady rhythm, the adrenaline rush of juggling dozens of customers, followed by the quieter times where I restock, clean up, and prepare for the madness to return.

The hard-core drinkers aren’t ones to talk, but I like that, too. More of them make eye contact with me tonight. Another few days, and I’ll be worthy of them learning my name. Then my list of growing social contacts will really piss the detective off.

Nine p.m. Dinner crowd done, tables thinning, demand easing.

No detective.

Ten p.m. Down to a few tables of rowdies, enjoying a big night out.

No detective.

Eleven p.m. Tables are pretty much cleared. The bar is left with the hard-core stragglers, who will stay to closing.

I scared him off. Not everyone appreciates bluntness, and not every man can deal with the hot mess that is me.

Or he’s exhausted, having spent most of last night working. Or he’s still on the job, as today’s revelations have led to even more breaks in the case.

I want to hear about new breaks in the case. I want . . .

The door opens.

Lotham appears.

And despite all my bold declarations, my stomach flip-flops and my hands tremble, and I do feel like a stupid schoolgirl, even though I, of all people, know better.

The detective has showered and changed. Dark jeans, paired with a rich turquoise button-down shirt stretched across his broad chest. He radiates cop and authority figure and military man all rolled into one. As he approaches the bar, several of the hard-core drinkers beat a retreat. I don’t blame them.

“Girly drink?” I ask as he takes a seat.

He gives me a look. “I’ll take a glass of water.”

The order unsettles me. Because he’s still working and needs a clear head? Or because he wants complete focus for our future interlude?

I dump ice in a glass, add water. Stoney wanders over, greets the detective with a nod. This time of night, never bad to have a cop nearby. Then Viv bustles out, takes in my impressive new customer, eyes him, eyes me, then delivers a not-so-subtle “You go girl.”

I turn red, which frazzles me more. I never did the giddy schoolgirl thing. Frankly, I was much too hammered most of the time to care. Manic, yes. Destructive, certainly. Giddy, never.

I place the water in front of Lotham. He takes a sip. At the end of the bar, one of the regulars flags me down to settle up his bill. I’m grateful for the distraction.

More beer here. A final round of rum punch there. Clearing plates. Cleaning tables. Moving, moving, moving.

I really would like a drink right now—and that, as much as anything, pisses me off. Time to get over my own fucking self.

By the time I return to the bar, my nerves have settled and Lotham has finished half his water.

“Food?” I ask him.

“Honestly, I’ve had nothing but grease for days. What I could use is a salad, but that’s not exactly on the menu.”

“Viv has been known to do special orders. For her favorites.”

“Viv, from the kitchen?”

“That’s her. And judging by the way she was looking at you, you’re already one of her favorites.”

That earns me a grin. Briefly, the detective appears ten years younger. His job is a burden he never sets down. It is both extremely attractive and kind of sad. Trying to save the world can be as much a compulsion as drinking, except Lotham doesn’t have a twelve-step program to save him from himself. I wonder if he will burn out, become embittered with the job, the life he never took the time to build. Maybe one day he will envy me, but I doubt it.

I pop into the kitchen. Ask Viv if she wouldn’t mind making a garden salad for a friend. That earns me so many cackles and knowing winks I have to leave before I start blushing again.

But the salad comes and the detective turns his attention to his food. The bar empties out and soon enough, Stoney is there, ready to lock the front door. He eyes the detective questioningly.

“He’s going to stay for a bit.”

Stoney nods, locks up, then pockets the key before making a point of disappearing to his office. I don’t know how to close out the register, so eventually he’ll have to take care of that, but for now I start stacking chairs.

Without a word, Lotham slips off the table and carries his plate to the kitchen.

“Hello, handsome!” Forget about me, he’s officially made Viv’s night.

“Thank you, ma’am. That was exactly what I needed.”

“You come again, let me know and I’ll make you a steak. Then you’ll know exactly what you’ve needed.”

From the back room, I hear Stoney make a strangling sound. Then Lotham reappears, looking slightly wide-eyed and red-faced. At least it’s not just me. I hand him a broom. As long as he’s here, he might as well be useful.

He starts from the back, working his way to the front while I wipe down the last of the tables and finish with the chairs.

“Did you learn more about Livia Samdi?” I ask him finally.

“She’s definitely missing, and the family definitely doesn’t care for police involvement.”

“Wait, is that your way of saying there might be value to my particular approach?”

“A good cop would never encourage civilian involvement in a case.”

Which is not the same thing as no.

“When did Livia run away?” I continue.

“January. Nearly three months after Angelique.”

“And the circumstances?”

“Went to school and never came home again.”

“That sounds suspiciously familiar. And they never contacted police?”

“According to the mom, Roseline, it wasn’t the first time Livia had disappeared. Sometimes the girl wouldn’t come home on Friday but would show up to school on Monday like nothing happened. Lost weekends. Even a week here and there. Let’s just say, given the . . . nature . . . of the household, I’m surprised they noticed that much.”

“What did Livia take with her?”

“That’s the thing. According to the mom, Livia’s clothes, personal possessions are mostly accounted for. She didn’t own a computer, just a cell phone, which disappeared with her. We tried pinging it with no luck. But we’re now pulling a record of calls and texts from the provider. Will be interesting to see if the phone is genuinely no longer in use, or just activated in short intervals.”

“Had they heard of Angelique Badeau?”

“The mom recognized the name from the news, that’s it.”

“So they didn’t know she and Livia were friends?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure the mom knew any of Livia’s friends. Or hobbies, or favorite color. Not that kind of family.”

“In other words, the complete opposite of Angelique’s family.” I pause, my hands still on a back of a chair. “I wonder what brought the girls together? Opposites attract? Angelique the caretaker thinking she could help out with Livia’s sad life?”

Lotham shrugs.

“Livia have a history of drinking and drugs?”

“Given the family, I would say yes to both. But they aren’t talking about it.”

“Maybe a school guidance counselor can tell you more.”

“Which is where I’ll be first thing in the morning.”

“So much for sticking around for a late breakfast,” I grumble.

That earns me the detective’s full attention. His eyes darken. He stands ten feet away, still holding the broom, but there’s suddenly not enough air in the room.

“This is what we do know,” he says softly. “Angelique is alive, and she needs help.”

I nod.

“She is somehow connected to Livia Samdi, another missing girl. And we are absolutely, positively, not mentioning anything about red hats to the press.”

“Your hold-back detail.”

“Not to mention, we don’t need dozens of sightings of people in red ball caps tying up resources.”

“What about Angelique’s appearance today? Will you ramp back up the investigation?”

“We are taking the sighting very seriously. But as far as the public knows, we have no confirmation that was Angelique in the store today. Which works well with the clerk’s maybe, kind of, not really sure statement.”

“You don’t want to involve the public?” I ask in surprise. “Reissue the Amber Alert?”

Lotham leans against the broom. “Angelique clearly has some freedom of movement but doesn’t feel like she can come home—”

“She needs help! Help us. She said it herself.”

“Exactly. She feels threatened and in danger. Until we understand more about that threat, who and what it involves, the safest approach is to follow her lead and keep things quiet. We’re adding more officers to the case, don’t worry. But our official position, which I need to know you will support, is that there’s nothing new to see here.”

“Don’t insult me,” I tell him harshly. I return to stacking chairs. I honestly can’t decide what I think of this.

“You’re going to inform Angelique’s family of the new sighting,” I say after another moment.

“The fewer people who know, the better.”

“Are you kidding me?” Now he does have my attention. “You have a significant lead and you’re not going to notify Guerline and Emmanuel?”

“When we know more, have something specific to share—”

“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t even have these latest discoveries without Emmanuel. The family trusts you, they came to you—”

“Actually, Emmanuel came to you—”

“And you wonder why? They knew then that you were holding back, and it did nothing but fuel further mistrust.”

Lotham remains calm and controlled: “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never lied to a family. Never omitted a detail, buried a lead. You do this work, you know how it is.”

I scowl. But I can’t look him in the eye and we both know it. I’ve made this judgment call before myself. I just don’t agree it’s the right approach with Angelique’s aunt and brother.

I stack more chairs. Lotham returns to sweeping. Stoney appears and tends to the register.

Viv finishes first. Her husband no sooner appears on the other side of the smoked-glass doors than Viv comes bustling out, putting on her jacket. Telepathy after so many years of marriage? Or does he text her upon arrival? I don’t know why I prefer the more romantic option.

Stoney takes off next. One last glance between Lotham and me. Then with some sort of mental shrug, he disappears out the side door. Lotham puts away the broom. I finish up cleaning the bar area.

Then that’s it. Work is done. The customers and other employees gone. There’s just this man and me, and a homicidal cat upstairs.

Lotham walks toward me. He’s light on his feet. A boxer. In hindsight, I should’ve known instantly.

He stops right in front of me, and I can’t help myself. I raise my hands. I dance my fingertips across his face, feeling out the line of his jaw, the soft, ragged edge of his mangled ear, then find another scar, just over his left eye. He has ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Why do men always have the best eyelashes?

His buzzed hair scrapes against my palm. Closer in texture to his end-of-day stubble and nothing at all like his silky eyebrows. He has furrowed lines in his forehead. I trace each one. Another sign of his stressful job? I like the mystery of those lines. What they communicate but cannot say.

My hands fall to his shoulders. Heavily muscled, rigid to the touch. Same with his arms. A boxer who still spends plenty of time in the ring. Up this close, I can see the pulse pounding at the base of his throat, hear his ragged breath.

I whisper my lips across the hollow of his throat. He smells of sandalwood, tastes like salt. The cleaned-up version of the man, but I would find him compelling either way.

“Good night, Frankie,” he says.

“Good night, Detective.” Then I raise my lips and kiss him properly.

For a moment, he unleashes. A storm of wild attraction and raw power as he crushes me against him. His mouth devours. His tongue ravages and I respond eagerly. This is not drunken fumbling or mindless fucking. This is feeling your feels.

I don’t protest when he pulls away, releases my arms, and steps back.

“Good night, Frankie,” he says again.

“Good night, Detective.”

Then I let him out the front door, and watch him walk away.