Page 111 of Before She Disappeared

“I have no idea.”

“You know what would be priceless and worth killing over? Green cards. Or work visas. A guy at the end of the bar suggested it. You have thousands of immigrants whose temporary status is about to expire, all of them have local roots, and none of them want to go home. Making a forged visa worth a small fortune.”

Lotham, however, is already shaking his head. “Can’t be done. Certainly not by two teenagers. Hell, we might as well go back to counterfeiting currency. It’d be about as easy.”

“Is there something in between? More valuable than a fake license? Not as complicated as a visa?”

“Off the top of my head...” He pauses, closes his eyes in thought, exhaustion, something. Opens them again. “Fake credit cards, I suppose. But that’s getting into identity theft, which is a whole different ball of wax. And I don’t know why anyone would need to kidnap two girls for that. There are several Russian gangs in Boston who are known for it. They already have recruits roaming the streets, internet cafés with data miners to record financial data straight out of someone’s wallet. Later, the data is transferred to a cloned card. For those operations, kidnapping would cause more trouble than it’s worth.”

I get what he’s saying. Unfortunately, it only adds to our confusion. I take it from the top.

“Angelique and Livia were abducted for a reason. First Angelique, who was most likely held hostage to force their original target, Livia, to do whatever it was they wanted Livia to do. Most likely this something involves computer design, 3D printing, parts manufacturing, whatever. But eventually, Livia disappeared, too. For the sake of argument, let’s assume it was because operations reached a point where they needed her on site, or desired more control. So now both girls are under wraps, but alive, fed, clothed, housed. Angelique doesn’t dare make a break for it or contact her family over fears they’ll hurt Livia, and vice versa.

“And the girls are working. Doing something important because otherwise why be kept alive at all? Maybe it started with the forged licenses, which showed off Livia’s skills. But it must’ve migrated to something with higher revenue potential to justify holding two kidnapped girls for nearly a year. Not to mention they’d need a space to keep the girls, plus have at least a couple of guys serving as guards, while overseeing operations... They wouldn’t necessarily require an entire warehouse for computer-generated forgeries, but space is still space.”

Lotham nods.

“For eleven months, the girls have been working on this... something. It’s gotten so intense and stressful. Livia’s breaking down, while Angelique’s terrified enough to risk making contact and dropping breadcrumbs. Except it’s still not enough. Angelique’s worst fears come true. Livia is killed...”

My voice trails off. “Meaning, whatever the project is, it’s nearing completion. They don’t need Livia anymore. Or Angelique.”

Lotham doesn’t disagree. “Except these are still questions, not answers. Nearly a year later, we’re no closer to the who, what, or where. Best lead we got is some mythical older brother of Livia’s who inspires fear.”

“I saw him again tonight.”

“Who?”

“Our mystery man. He was standing across the street from my apartment. When I pulled back the curtain of my apartment, he stared straight up at me.”

“Goddammit!” Lotham slams down his coffee mug. “You didn’t call me?”

I merely shrug. “And say what, he was just standing there. Except... If he was outside my apartment, then he couldn’t have been the one killing Livia. Could he?”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion. We don’t have time of death. Meaning he could’ve very well killed Livia, then come to monitor your actions. Dammit. Everything about this case. Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

“You need some sleep. We both need some sleep.”

“Because it’ll look better in the morning? It is fucking morning and a girl is dead!”

I don’t say anything, just take his hand. I feel his rage, his frustration. I’ve been there myself. Fourteen times. And it doesn’t get any easier to take.

“Angelique is still alive,” I tell him.

“Maybe.”

“She needs us. Whatever’s happening... it’s all going down fast. We have to figure this out. We will figure this out. But not like this. When’s the last time you even closed your eyes?”

He doesn’t answer. By my calculations, it’s probably been days. And exhaustion is clearly taking its toll.

“Come on. I’m taking you upstairs. Grab an hour or two of rest. Then we can review this again. When we’re both a little less insane.”

Lotham glowers, but doesn’t resist as I take his hand, lead him upstairs. My own thoughts are churning. A mix of crushing sorrow for a girl I never met and didn’t save. A deepening despair over too many questions and not enough answers. A growing dread that the clock is ticking, mercilessly now, and if we don’t figure this out...

Help us, Angelique had written.

Except we didn’t.

I make Lotham sit on the edge of the mattress. He removes his sidearm and gold shield, placing them neatly on the bedside table. He moves on autopilot, his eyelids already lowering, his body collapsing as I divest him of everything but his T-shirt and boxers. His chest is broad, and heavily muscled. I do not trace his collarbone with my fingertips. I do not trail my lips along the hollow of his throat.

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