Page 36 of Before She Disappeared

“You work at the rec center?” I ask as we exit the church. He locks up behind us.

“Volunteer three afternoons a week. Try to do my part to set these boys straight. I’ve lived here most of my life. Seen the good, the bad, the ugly. I know what they’re going through.”

“Ever meet Angelique Badeau?”

“The missing girl?” Charlie stops, looks at me. “Why are you asking about her?”

“I heard about the case. It’s made me curious.”

“I saw her around the center,” Charlie says slowly. “But can’t say that I know more than that.”

“Could I stop by, look around?”

“Don’t see why not. Best time is after school hours or on the weekend. If you’re looking to see the kids.”

Charlie studies me. Maybe he hopes I’m looking to mentor girls or volunteer my time or talk responsible drinking with teens. He’s not sure about my questions, however, some internal radar clearly pinging to life. Liars are very good at spotting other liars. He doesn’t push it, though. Maybe the next time we meet.

We’re outside the church now, standing on a broad avenue. I have eight blocks between here and Stoney’s to cover. The first of those streets is bathed in streetlights but quickly fades into a tunnel of black. I stick my hands in my jacket pockets, square my shoulders. Now or never.

“I can walk with you,” Charlie offers.

I shake my head. “I’m good. I don’t have far to go, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Charlie is clearly torn on the subject. But we’ve just met and part of being an addict is learning the importance of boundaries. His job is to take care of him, just like my job is to take care of me. We will both be the better for it.

He finally shrugs, heading in the opposite direction. I let him go first, watching his bulk shuffle into the dark. Then I set off at a much more rapid pace.

The first block is empty of pedestrians. Just cars passing by, some slowing down, some speeding up, all of which I pointedly ignore. Off the lighted boulevard now, onto a smaller, darker residential street. No shadows peel off from the dark. No footsteps echo around me.

I keep hustling, block by block. Two streets from my destination I spot four figures ahead. They are clumped near a tree at the corner of an overgrown lot. Definitely men, but other than that it’s too dark to tell. Their attention is on one another, not seeming to notice me as I cross to the other side to put more distance between us.

There is something so furtive about the group that the hairs rise instinctively on the back of my neck. One of them has his pants down around his knees. I don’t want to see more, yet I can’t look away.

Then I spy it, faintly illuminated by a distant porchlight. A needle jammed into the inside of the man’s thigh. Followed by an ecstatic look on the man’s face. His companions shift closer, one already reaching for the needle, anticipating his turn.

I pass on by. They never notice. Just five addicts sharing a brief moment that four of them will never remember.

I make it to my apartment. Close the door behind me. And remembering to leave my socks on, finally crash exhausted into bed.

—

The low rumble of an engine. I hear it, followed by a weight, solid and warm on top of my chest.

“Good night, Piper,” I murmur.

More rumbling.

Then we both fall asleep again.

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