Page 90 of Before She Disappeared

“You can get killed for looking wrong around here. Don’t trust you’re as immune as you think.”

I tilt up my chin in an impressive display of false bravado. “I’m here to find a missing girl. Or girls, as the case may be. I’m gonna keep going till that job is done. You can start your own rumor on the streets—they want the skinny white chick to go away, then produce Angelique and Livia. I’ll be gone within a matter of hours. On my word.”

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“Does for me.”

Charlie smiles, but it’s a briefer expression this time. He leans forward. “Watch your back, little lady.”

“I’ve been in tough places before.”

“Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been to war, and it still wasn’t as scary as living around here.”

I don’t have an answer to that. I finish my salad. Charlie finishes his coffee. I pay for both of us—then, despite my protests, Charlie walks me home.

Even then, I’m suddenly aware of all the dark shapes around us, noises from side streets, small gatherings in the dark. One kid with a gun. All it would take. Quick, dirty, effective. Charlie’s not wrong about that.

At the side entrance to Stoney’s, I kiss my newfound friend on the cheek in gratitude, then retreat upstairs and hole up in the solitude of my apartment.

—

I call Lotham. It’s late, but it doesn’t surprise me that he picks up immediately.

“You should pull the fake ID Angelique dropped yesterday. I have reason to believe the ID itself might be a clue.”

A pause, the weight of many unasked questions, such as why did I believe such a thing now and who might I have been speaking with. Then: “I’ll retrieve it from evidence first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Then, we don’t speak. I stay on my puny little flip phone. I listen to him breathe. And it’s like knives flaying my skin. The sense of déjà vu. The harsh knowledge that this is the only way I know how to connect. All these years later, nothing has changed. I am me, and the rest of the world, the good guys like Paul, like Lotham...

“Good night,” I say at last, my voice thick. I might be crying, but I don’t want to be.

“Good night,” he agrees.

He ends the call. I sit in my threadbare room, holding my phone against my chest and telling myself I have no reason to be sad when this is the life I’ve chosen for myself. Eventually, I change into my sleeping clothes, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. Lights out. One day done, another soon to begin.

But once again, my dreams haunt me.

Paul: “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Me: “I just have work to do.”

“Are you drinking again?”

“No! It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then why all the secrecy, the disappearing act?”

“I told you, I’m looking into something, a friend’s missing daughter...”

“What’s it to you?”

Me, hostile: “What’s it to you?”

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