Page 37 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 10

In the morning, Piper has once again vanished off the bed. Not wanting to repeat yesterday’s mistake, I climb off the end of the mattress, taking as big a step as possible onto the floor. No claws lash out. I move gingerly around the bed to the kitchen area, and notice two things at once: The water bowl needs to be refilled, and there are two disemboweled mice in the middle of the ancient hardwoods. Viv hadn’t been kidding; Piper earns her keep.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” I call out to my roommate. “And what do I do now? Throw away the corpses? Fashion the ears into a necklace?”

I find a plastic grocery bag in one of the kitchen drawers and reluctantly use it to pick up the remains. That still leaves me with a brownish red smear. Definitely gross. I jump quickly into the shower before my feline roommate can make any more statements.

Ten a.m. I have five hours before I need to report to work, and many investigative paths to pursue. I want to follow up on after-hours cell phones, though it sounds like that might have to wait for a free evening. I also have more questions for the family, now that I’m getting the lay of the land. I wonder if Guerline would let me go through Angelique’s room, till I remember Angelique doesn’t really have a room. But she must still have stuff in the living room, that sort of thing.

Most people don’t realize what a financial luxury privacy is. An individual bedroom, time alone, designated workspace—these things cost money. Angelique got to sleep in a shared family room, while probably doing homework on the kitchen table on a refurbished laptop after her brother had his turn.

Meaning that if she wanted to keep secrets, a diary might not be out of the question. The police had to have gone through her things; her aunt and brother, too. But this is where a fresh pair of eyes doesn’t hurt.

Maybe I could get Guerline to meet me at the apartment on her lunch break? Which would make this morning a good time for the rec center. Even if there aren’t kids around, it would be helpful to meet the staff who work there, some of whom may remember Angelique from the summer before she went missing.

It’s worth a shot.

I lace up my tennis shoes, throw on my olive-colored jacket, and head down the stairs and out the side door.

Where I receive my next surprise of the morning.

Emmanuel Badeau, who’s clearly skipped school, is waiting impatiently for me.

“I have something to show you,” he says without preamble, pushing away from the side of the building. “But you can’t tell my aunt.”

I don’t have time to say yes or no, before he unzips his backpack and removes a battered laptop.

I turn back around, unlock the door, and lead him into Stoney’s bar.

“You do not know my sister,” he starts. “People think because she’s a teenager she must be silly or stupid or impulsive. She’s none of these things.”

“Water?” I ask.

“Coffee,” he orders.

“What are you, thirteen?”

Emmanuel looks up at me blankly. Apparently drinking coffee at thirteen is not shocking in his world. I head to the kitchen to brew up a pot, because I certainly need a cup, giving him time to boot up the laptop. By the time I return, he’s seated at the booth farthest from the front door, frowning over the screen on his laptop. The machine is making a funny whirring noise that doesn’t sound particularly healthy to me. Idly, he lifts up the slender instrument and bangs it down on the table. The grinding noise stops. The battered case, I notice, is covered in stickers. Everything from favorite coffee shops to the Haitian flag to the Red Sox. You can learn a lot about a person from their stickers. So far, I’ve deduced that Emmanuel has the same interests as an average teenager.

“Cream, sugar?” I ask.

The answer turns out to be all of the above. Emmanuel pours enough extras into his mug to turn it into a coffee-flavored milkshake. I take my first sip of shuddering-hot brew, and remind myself it would not taste better with a shot of Baileys. Or Kahlua. Or maybe even that RumChata stuff.

Emmanuel turns the laptop till I can see the screen from my side of the table. It takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing.

It’s like a virtual bulletin board, filled with photos of his sister, and plastered with what appear to be scanned copies of newspaper articles. There are bubble comments here and there and fierce words scrawled across certain sections in bold.

Big Sister. Caring Daughter. Star Student.

It’s a digital collage. Without asking for permission, I take the laptop and pull it over to me. I study each image, each pull-out quote.

A faded photo of a baby with her face covered in smeared bananas. A photo of a little girl sitting on an old couch next to an infant, patting his head like one would pet a dog. Next photo, Angelique and her toddler brother are holding hands, beaming in front of a homemade swing.

Then the most recent photos. Angelique sitting at the table in the apartment, head over her schoolwork. Angelique on the sofa, holding up an exasperated hand, as if to ward off the photographer. Angelique curled up asleep on the sofa, colorful quilt pulled up to her neck, an anatomy book splayed beneath her chin, where it must’ve fallen when she dozed off.

Angelique smiling that same shy smile from her missing poster. But also Angelique laughing, Angelique working. Fifteen-year-old Angelique, growing up in front of my eyes.

Then, I start scanning the words, and I understand everything.

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