Page 109 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 29

Lotham sits in the rear booth. He’s wearing yesterday’s snazzy ensemble with his tie loosened and dress shirt wrinkled. He looks gutted.

I pour him a cup of hot coffee. When he stares at it blankly, I head to the bar, grab a bottle of rum, and add a shot. Just because I’m an alcoholic doesn’t mean other people can’t drink.

I return the rum, take a seat across from him. I’m still wearing my oversized T-shirt with a pair of men’s boxers. They were Paul’s, once, but we’re not here to discuss that.

“Speak,” I order.

“What happened to your arm?”

I look down at the blood-crusted gashes. “Piper.”

“Did you try to spoon with her or something?”

“Or something. Speak.”

Lotham takes a fortifying gulp of rum-laced coffee. His hand is shaking. I’m not sure he notices till he tries to set the mug down and sloshes coffee over the edge. “Sorry.”

I wait.

“I didn’t even know she was missing,” he mutters at last. “Fifteen-year-old girl, and we didn’t even know she was lost till a couple of days ago.”

Which is how I learn we’re talking about Livia Samdi, not Angelique Badeau.

“Where did you find the body?”

“Franklin Park. Dumped behind a tree.”

I wince. “Harsh.”

“She was fully clothed,” he says.

I get it. There are other options. “Cause of death?”

“Bruises around the neck. Petechial hemorrhages in the eyes.”

“Strangulation.”

“Park was the dump site. Forensic gurus will have to perform some magic to see if we can narrow in on place of death. Homeless guy flagged down a patrol car. Poor man was just looking for a place to crash for the night, when he found a body instead.”

I nod. Lotham keeps talking.

“Initial analysis, wherever Livia had been staying, it wasn’t on the streets. She was too clean for that. She was dressed simply—jeans, a Patriots T-shirt, sneakers. None of the items were brand-new, but none appeared that old either. She was noticeably thin, her fingernails chewed down to the nubs, her back molars worn from repeated grinding. Definite signs of chronic stress, according to the ME, though not necessarily physical abuse. No bruises, fresh lacerations, healing fractures, that sort of thing. She looked pretty good, all things considered. You know, other than her neck.” Lotham exhaled heavily, chugged more coffee.

“Angelique?”

“Homeless man didn’t see anyone in the area. We’re still reviewing video footage now. But that section of the park is off the beaten path. I’d say whoever dumped her knew what he was doing.”

It’s such a sad term. Dumping. Like trash or unwanted goods, instead of a teenage girl.

“Livia’s family?” I ask.

“I did the notification myself. Her mother didn’t appear surprised at all. Just flat—that parent who’s always feared the worst and now doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“I know how it is.”

“J.J. was there.”

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