Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 37

I’m in the hospital for a matter of days. I don’t remember much. A blur of pain as I fight the doctor’s orders for morphine, screaming that I’m an addict. Lotham might be there. Or maybe it’s Charlie, Viv, Stoney. At one point, I’m convinced even Piper has paid a visit.

I don’t have insurance, which means once the bullet is removed from my left shoulder and the wound patched on my right arm, I’m back out the door. This time it’s Lotham who definitely does the honors of picking me up, driving me back to Stoney’s and leading me upstairs.

I sleep. I dream. Of Paul, of Angelique. Of Deke dying in my arms. Of Livia chasing me through a park: What about me, what about me?

When I wake up, I don’t have an answer, so I sleep again.

In one of my more lucid moments, I learn that Frédéric, Dutch, and some guy named Holden have all been arrested. Dutch survived my encounter with him. Holden is still in the hospital, recovering from broken ribs, a broken jaw, and a ruptured spleen. I’m told he’ll live. I think I’m grateful, but I can’t be sure.

Apparently, Frédéric had gotten into the drug business nearly twenty years ago. He’d used his position at the rec center to meet and recruit other lower-level dealers, before going upmarket with the purchase of hundreds of thousands of dollars in counterfeit currency.

He’d initially been amused by Deke’s idea to enter the fake license market. But once he’d realized Livia’s and Angelique’s full potential, he’d quickly gotten on board. Then Angelique’s fateful idea to set up a sham college for issuing real student visas . . . As I’d suspected, the revenue potential was too good to pass up. If he had to kidnap two girls, so be it.

He’d stashed the girls at an abandoned town house just around the corner from the rec center, with Deke, Holden, and Dutch serving as rotating guards. Livia and Angelique would work at night, and sleep during the day, lowering their profile.

Most of the time, the girls were confined to the town house, utilizing a couple of computers Frédéric had brought over for them. But every so often, they’d journey to the rec center after dark to print out new and improved versions of the driver’s licenses. Deke assisted with local sales, while Dutch handled online marketing. The license business hadn’t been bad but, given the not-quite-Grade-A quality of the forgeries, still limited. Merely a convenient cash flow vehicle while the girls worked toward the larger goal of perfecting a sham college.

Unfortunately, Livia had slowly but surely deteriorated under the constant pressure. Angelique’s initial kidnapping had stressed her out. By the time Deke grabbed her as well, under Frédéric’s orders but also because Deke genuinely thought he could control the situation better if he had the girls together, Livia was a constant bundle of nerves. Angelique had done her best to run interference and buy them time. Especially once she’d realized Deke had a soft spot for his sister.

Unfortunately, Frédéric wasn’t the sentimental type. Once Gleeson C was perfected and the first round of student visa paperwork issued, he considered the girl to be little more than a liability. He took care of Livia first. But as Angelique and Deke quickly realized, she wouldn’t be the last. Frédéric, ordering Holden to shoot J.J., kidnap Emmanuel, then kill Deke when he tried to intervene . . .

On and on until there was no one left.

Sixth day, or maybe seventh, I manage to get out of bed long enough to shower, force down some soup. Afterward I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My drawn face, my heavily bandaged shoulder. I look like shit. And I feel like . . . ?

I can’t decide. I found Angelique Badeau. I brought home a missing girl. It’s not that I expected to feel like a superhero, but I did hope to maybe feel like a better person.

Mostly, I feel the same I always did.

I go back to bed. When I wake up again, Stoney is standing in my apartment.

“You really are a lousy employee.”

“Yep.”

Piper appears from beneath the bed, winds around Stoney’s ankles. Purrs. Traitorous bitch.

“But you’re not bad at the missing persons thing,” Stoney says.

I give him a weak thumbs-up.

“You got visitors.”

Then he’s gone, and Guerline is standing in my kitchen, Angelique to one side, Emmanuel to the other. My breath hitches. I feel a stab of pain in my shoulder, as I drag myself up to sitting, but I don’t wince. I don’t want to scare them away.

Emmanuel has dark bruises fading on the right side of his face, remnants of his kidnapping. He also has purple smudges beneath his dark eyes, remnants of recent nightmares. In comparison, Angelique appears relatively unscathed, just some scabbing along one cheek. She stands very still, however. A traumatized girl holding on tight. A survivor, alone in a crowded room.

I wonder which is worse for her, the painful memories or the unrelenting guilt? I want to tell her I know exactly how she feels, but I doubt she would believe me. She’s not there yet in her own healing. She’s merely the teenager who went missing, and I’m merely the woman who finally found her.

I have no idea how our relationship develops from here. It’s never come up before.

I offer a tentative smile.

“Thank you,” Guerline says.

“Emmanuel and Angelique deserve the credit. Without Angelique’s messages and Emmanuel’s determination, we wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry you got shot,” Angelique states.

“Totally worth it.”

“Do you . . . Can I . . .” Angelique begins. She doesn’t seem to know quite what to say, but I think I understand.

“Can we have a moment?” I ask Guerline and Emmanuel.

Both hesitate. Having gotten Angelique back, they clearly don’t want her out of their sight. But after another second, Guerline concedes with a nod. Emmanuel follows her out.

Alone, Angelique appears even more uncomfortable. I finally pat the side of the bed. “Sit. It’s okay.”

She complies, but again, holds herself rigid.

“It will get better,” I tell her. “Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually.”

“It’s all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. But I understand it feels that way. I lost someone I love. It’s been ten years. I still blame myself.”

She regards me solemnly. “I loved Livia. When she first came to me about the fake IDs, I told her it was too risky. But she wanted to make me happy. And she’d started meeting her older brother. Deke. I didn’t think he was good for her. But he was her brother, and family is family.” Angelique shrugs.

Given her closeness with her brother, Emmanuel, I could see her not wanting to take such an opportunity away from Livia.

“But Deke’s friends . . . They kept wanting more. So we would work harder. But nothing seemed enough. Deke tried to tell us it would be okay. Just do this, do that, it would all be fine. But I knew. I suspected . . .

“By the time Deke said his friend wanted to meet face to face with Livia, we were both nervous. Livia didn’t think she could do it. I told her I would go in her place. I thought I could protect her. I even had a plan—I had found online articles about groups that had set up fake universities for issuing student visas. They made millions and millions. Even ICE set up a fake university to trap foreign students looking for visas. I thought such a sophisticated operation would placate Frédéric. He would leave us to work on some mysterious website. We could forget about the fake licenses, which were much more difficult to perfect than we’d thought, and Livia could stop being so stressed out. I assumed I was doing something good. Instead, I made everything worse.”

I understand. The lure of so much money had caused Frédéric to become even more intense, leading to the eventual abduction of both girls.

“You can’t go backward,” I advise Angelique, “so consider this: If you can’t save the people you already lost, maybe you can save someone else instead. Become a doctor. Build a life. Livia, Deke, they would’ve wanted that for you.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I was with Deke when he died. He tried. For you and Livia. He loved his sister, and genuinely regretted what happened to you. In the end, this was more his fault than either of yours.”

“Deke tried to help,” she says, still looking down at her lap. I’m assuming she means her and Livia’s relationship. “The night, when Frédéric strangled Livia . . . He would’ve killed me next, but Deke stopped him. I was still useful, he argued. The student visas had been my idea, yes? He also convinced Frédéric to drive Livia’s body to Franklin Park. He said it would distract the police and be safer than having the cops discover her body near the rec center. But really, Deke couldn’t bear the thought of Livia being dumped in some alley. I couldn’t either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Holden shot him in the van. Emmanuel saw. Deke . . . He wasn’t a good man, he made many mistakes, especially with his sister, but I’m sorry he’s dead.”

I’m not sure what to say. I’m getting tired, the ache in my shoulder deeper. Finally: “You’re a survivor, Angelique. You’re strong, resilient. Don’t forget that. If you hadn’t risked posting the essay, dropping the fake license, appearing in public, we wouldn’t have found you. We wouldn’t have been able to save you or your brother.”

It’s not gratitude I see reflected in her eyes, however, but guilt. She wasn’t trying to save herself. She’d been trying to save Livia. And her girlfriend’s death was now her burden to bear.

“It will get better,” I repeat, though I can already tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s not ready to forgive herself yet. Maybe she never will. I understand that, too.

Angelique stands up, gives me a final, solemn nod, then departs. I manage some water, more of what I’m assuming is Viv’s homemade soup. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, refresh my bandage. The bullet graze on my right arm is already significantly healed. Which leaves only the recently stitched hole in my shoulder. That will definitely leave a scar. I can picture myself fingering it at night, reminding myself that once, I was successful. Once, I got it right.

Do I feel like a different person yet?

I keep waiting, but no such luck. I remain Frankie Elkin. Alcoholic. Ex-lover. Lost soul.

I retreat to the mattress, taking with me my brown leather messenger bag. I pull out two manila files, pore through the contents till my eyes grow heavy. When I wake up again my room is dark and a shadow looms beside my bed.

“Shhh,” Lotham says as he climbs onto the mattress beside me. “Just rest.” Then he gathers me up against him, and I feel the heat of his body. I drift off to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Later, when I wake up crying, he wipes away my tears with his fingers and then with his lips and I turn myself fully against him. I move urgently and demandingly until he finally gives up and gives in. Then we are skin to skin, gentle but rough, soft but demanding, and it is better than any drop of booze.

Afterward, I finally sleep deep and hard and when I wake up to find him gone, that’s okay, too. It makes it easier for what I have to do next.

I pick up my phone and dial. First time I’ve ever called in daylight. I’m not even sure she’ll pick up. Then:

“Frankie, please—”

“I found a missing girl. Her name is Angelique Badeau. She’s sixteen. I brought her home alive.”

A pause. “That’s . . . that’s good. Paul would like that. But you don’t need me to tell you that, Frankie. And all these years later, please, can you just stop calling? It hurts.”

“He died saying he loved you. He said . . . So many he tried to fix. But you healed him. You were the great love of his life.”

A much longer pause now. Maybe she’s crying. I know I am. I’ve never told her this before. I should’ve. But I just couldn’t. I needed, selfishly, for Paul to be about me. I needed, terribly, to keep his last moments as mine.

“Thank you,” Amy says at last. I can hear her drawing a shuddery breath.

“I’ll stop calling. I’m sorry. I don’t know why . . .”

But I do, and she does, too. Because she is all I have left of him. Just like I am her sole connection to his memory.

“Well, maybe every now and then,” she allows.

“Are you happy?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

“I have a new husband, a baby girl. Life moves on, Frankie. But thank you for calling. Thank you for telling me that.”

“Good-bye, Amy.”

“Good-bye, Frankie.”

I set down the phone. I take a deep breath. And then I’m ready. Not new and improved, but maybe the old model is better than I thought. Final shower, fresh change of clothes, then I find Stoney downstairs in his office.

He doesn’t have to ask to know. “That’s it, then? Back on the road?”

I nod.

“You can keep the apartment till the end of the month. Longer, if you want to return to work.”

I nod.

“Bet there’s more cases around here. Maybe people will even come to you, as word gets out.” He studies me. I love the lines of his face, a man who’s known heartache but also hope.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and for both of us, it’s enough.

I return upstairs and pack. Five shirts, three pairs of pants, same threadbare underwear I still haven’t gotten around to replacing.

I pause long enough to write a note. Lotham will be angry, but he won’t be surprised.

He is who he is. And I am who I am.

My name is Frankie Elkin and finding missing people is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking.

Now, I take my suitcase. Head downstairs.

And then, I disappear.