Page 139 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 36

I dial 911 as I race toward the wide boulevard, then track north. I rant about a gunshot victim in a back alley. I tell the confused dispatch operator it’s Deke Alarie and he’s already dead and Officer O’Shaughnessy is in the vicinity and please let him know. And P.S., please tell a guy named Charlie that I’m sorry. Then I hang up before the operator can ask me any more questions.

Next I call Lotham’s cell. He answers instantly this time, already on high alert.

“Where are you?”

“They have Angelique and Emmanuel. Deke tried to stop them. He’s dead.” I tell him where I’m going, then warn, “Lights off, sirens quiet. If they know the police are there...”

Lotham doesn’t require further explanation. I think of his broad face, his mangled ear. I think he’s a good man, an excellent detective, and if anyone can get this done... I think, if I get shot next, he’s the one I would like to hold my hand.

He’s not speaking. I hear his thoughts instead. His quiet desperation for me to go home, be safe. His relentless need to save Angelique, to protect me.

But maybe I am growing on him, because he doesn’t say the words out loud anymore. He doesn’t tell me to do things we both know I won’t do. I hang up the phone. I keep running.

Toward where it all began two summers ago. Where it will end tonight.

The rec center.

And its kindly director, Frédéric Lagudu.

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I come upon the van first. It is parked out front, the back doors slung open, the inside empty. I don’t dare use my pocket flashlight to examine it more closely. I sniff instead, catching the unmistakable scent of blood. From Deke, before they dumped him? Or am I already too late?

I refuse to believe that Emmanuel is dead, if only because I can’t bear the thought. All of my other cases, I’ve pursued my target from a distance, never having met the missing person in question. But Emmanuel, I’ve talked to him, comforted him. He’s just a boy. He doesn’t deserve this.

I creep my way around the giant metal building. I don’t see any trace of lights or detect any sounds of activity. But I know how immense the building is. Plenty of internal classrooms and smaller storage spaces that aren’t noticeable from the outside. What was it Mr. Riddenscail said? The operation could be as simple as a single computer and printer. Wouldn’t require much square footage at all.

Did that mean Livia and Angelique had been there every time I’d visited? And Frédéric, holed up in his office bright and early each morning, hadn’t been the diligent savior of at-risk teens I’d thought him to be?

In hindsight, the description of the driver who’d dumped Livia’s body, a tall, thin Black man, fit Frédéric as well as Deke; I’d simply never connected those dots before. Combine that with Deke’s comment that “they” had seen me talking to J.J.—that conversation had taken place outside the rec center. Again, all roads leading back to this one enormous building. Where Livia and Angelique had first met. Where someone in Frédéric’s position would have plenty of opportunity to scope out their talent. He’d probably been recruiting local kids for various enterprises for years. Well over a decade, if Deke knew him from his days before prison. So many things that now made sense, if only I’d paid attention sooner.

Now, I try to remember the name of the shorter, muscular man who’d been in the building the first time I’d visited. Dutch? Something like that. According to Deke, there were multiple other players. Certainly Dutch would make for excellent hired muscle. Though there could be criminal partners I’d never met before. One, two, half a dozen?

I still don’t know what I don’t know.

Which doesn’t stop me from creeping around to the rear entrance, slowly cracking open the heavy glass door.

I pause, listening intently. No alarms sound, no bodies materialize on the other side. I slide myself through, halting again to get my bearings.

I can just make out a light down the long corridor, near Frédéric’s office. Which presents me with my first obstacle. Discovered in that corridor, I’ll be a sitting duck. And these guys have real guns they’re not afraid to use. Unlike me, who is the proud owner of a red rape whistle.

I take a steadying breath and do what I do best. Think like a reprobate. Seventeen-year-old me, desperate for a drink, confronted with the challenge of sneaking down a long, dark hallway unseen in order to score a bottle of booze, what would I do?

And just like that, it comes to me.

I dart sideways, hitting the checkout desk for outdoor equipment. Behind it, I feel around in the dark, making out the locked cabinets holding sporting goods. A touch to my hair, and I have my tactical hair clip in hand. Time to test it out.

It takes me a couple of tries—being in the dark doesn’t help—but then, with a click, the lock gives, the broad doors open up. I stick the hair clip back in my hair. Best four bucks I’ve ever spent.

Then I resume feeling around in the dark, identifying the texture of a basketball, the shape of a soccer ball, then baseball bats, mitts, balls.

I start with a baseball. Standing behind the desk, I wind up, then hurl it for all I’m worth at the glass doors. Nothing shatters, but there is a distinct clang as it ricochets off the metal doorframe, then careens around the space. I wait, poised and alert. When nothing happens, I follow with a basketball, then a soccer ball. More rattles and clangs.

Finally, from the end of the hallway. “Who’s there?”

In response, I bounce a basketball down the corridor.

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