Page 93 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 24

This is Emmanuel,” he says.

I’m groggy, still rousing from my troubled night. “Emmanuel?”

“I’m here with my aunt. We need to speak to you.”

Talk. Now. The victim’s family. “I can meet you at your apartment.”

“We’re outside, at the side entrance.”

Of course they are. “Five minutes,” I mutter, which is a total lie. I’m buried in bed, still wearing my nightshirt, breath foul, feral roommate long gone.

I hang up the phone and stagger my way to the shower. I subject myself to an ice-cold spray, then throw on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and head downstairs before I think better of it. Angelique’s family. They might have new information for me. Or new information to demand of me. Either way, their pain matters.

I crack open the side door of Stoney’s establishment long enough to identify Emmanuel and his aunt. Guerline is wearing traditional turquoise hospital scrubs, but there’s something about the expression on her face...

I blink against the harshness of daylight, glance at my watch. Ten a.m. Late by many standards. Way too early for the night shift crowd. I open the heavy metal door wider. “Are you hungry?” I ask.

“We’ve eaten,” Guerline speaks up.

“Coffee?”

No one says no to coffee. Plus, Lotham had said it was an important part of Haitian hospitality, and I want to be as welcoming as possible. Guerline nods. I allow her and her nephew entrance. Emmanuel, a pro by now, leads the way to the exact same booth he occupied before, while I disappear long enough to activate machines that produce caffeine. My stomach is grumbling. I inspect Viv’s fridge, hope she will forgive me as I select two eggs, fire up her griddle, and scramble away.

I return with the pot of coffee, pouring out three mugs with the deft practice of a lifelong waitress. Emmanuel goes to work with the cream and sugar. I return to the kitchen, where I wolf down the scrambled eggs to settle my stomach, then give myself a brief and silent pep talk. I head back to the dining room.

“The police,” Guerline says at last, clutching her coffee mug. “They ask, but they do not tell. You must have word.”

I understand. The families so often live in anguished limbo—not trusted, not informed, not represented in their own loved ones’ missing persons investigations. I’ve worked plenty of cases where the suspicions regarding the family’s involvement have been borne out, but my gut tells me Emmanuel and his aunt aren’t part of that group.

Briefly, I tell them about the findings involving Angelique’s recovered stash of money—that some of the bills appear to be high-quality counterfeits. Guerline’s eyes widen in genuine shock, while Emmanuel pauses with his coffee mug in midair.

“Counterfeit?” he asks.

“Probably printed in Europe and imported.”

“We don’t have counterfeit money,” Guerline says. “We don’t have... money.”

And yet, Angelique had.

“Did Angelique ever talk about her friend from the summer camp, Livia Samdi?”

Twin nos.

“Do you know Livia?”

More head shakes.

“Ever hear her name mentioned, maybe when Angelique was talking to another one of her friends, or maybe you came home early to find a new girl visiting your apartment?”

Guerline shakes her head, more emphatically this time.

Emmanuel hesitates. “One day, I overheard LiLi, on the phone. She was trying to calm someone down. ‘I know, I know,’ she kept repeating. Then, ‘I’m working on it. Please trust me.’”

“And?” I prod.

“And then Angelique spotted me. She turned away, ended the call. It was only later that it occurred to me, the way she was holding the phone, it wasn’t right.”

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