Page 45 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 12

Lotham is back to his phone, a major detective working a major case. He paces the entire length of the tavern as he rips off strings of commands. I don’t have minions to order about or experts to call in, so I remain with Emmanuel. His face has shuttered. He stares at his laptop as if trying to see through it. Maybe he’s wishing he’d logged on sooner to find the note. Maybe he’s sorry he found it now.

I give him thirty seconds, then start stacking our used coffee mugs on the empty plates. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“Time to clean up.”

Emmanuel’s eyes widen. What kind of crazy person worries about dishes at a time like this? But I don’t make it a request, and he’s too well trained to defy direct orders. He follows me into the kitchen. I set him to work with the high-power spray and industrial-grade dishwashing detergent.

While he tends to the dishes, I go to work on the coffeepot, then clean up around the fryolator.

“Your sister sent that note for you,” I say.

Emmanuel pauses momentarily, then picks up the next coffee mug.

“She sent that note to you,” I continue. “She posted it, knowing you would see it. Who else would be logging into some virtual high school? Who else would think to look there, other than the younger brother who knew her that well?”

“I don’t understand. Where she went. What happened. Who she is with now. I don’t understand.”

“None of us do. But this is good, Emmanuel. It’s contact. If she did it once, maybe she’ll have a chance to do it again.”

“My sister has been kidnapped.” He says the words as if testing them out. “She made it to the internet café, but she must still be fearful if she couldn’t just ask for help. Why wouldn’t she be able to ask for help? Who is us?”

“This is good,” I repeat. “She’s alive.”

“LiLi’s not safe,” he says. “Help us, help us, help us.” His shock is wearing off. I know what comes next.

I move to the sink. I shut off the spray, taking the mug from his now shaking hand and setting it down.

“We don’t know what we don’t know,” I tell him, my fingers holding his, as his breath starts to hitch and his shoulders tremble. “She’s thinking, Emmanuel. As you said, your sister doesn’t dream, she makes plans. Disguising a plea for help as a history essay, then waiting for the right moment to upload it to the internet for her brother to discover—that’s brilliant. Your sister found a way to reach out to you. And you were there, Emmanuel. Whatever happens next, you got the message. You were there for her.”

His eyes well. He wants to cry. He doesn’t want to appear weak. He’s nearly broken with fear. He’s desperate to remain strong.

Then, noises from the dining room behind us. Guerline appears in the kitchen doorway, coat still on, bearing still imposing. She doesn’t so much as glance at me but sweeps through the tight space and enfolds her nephew into her arms.

Emmanuel’s shoulders shake harder, though no sound comes out. His aunt strokes his hair and murmurs soft words. A family unit of two that used to be three.

I leave them to their shared grief as I go to find Detective Lotham and figure out what I should do next.

—

An hour later, Guerline and Emmanuel are ensconced in the booth, heads bowed together, while Detective Lotham stands in the opposite corner in deep conversation with Officer O’Shaughnessy. They keep their voices low, but the intensity of the discussion has me and Angelique’s family straining our ears.

Finally both cops pause, mutter something I can’t quite catch, then break from their police huddle and make their way over to them. I’m behind the bar, pretending to stack glasses and clean already scoured surfaces simply to give myself something to do. The French fries have settled queasily in my stomach, or maybe it’s the growing implications of what Angelique’s hidden help message must mean.

“Does the name Tamara Levesque mean anything to you?” Detective Lotham asks Aunt Guerline and Emmanuel.

Both shake their heads as Officer O’Shaughnessy slides into the booth opposite them. He clasps the aunt’s hand, and she lets him.

“All right, this is what we know.” Lotham doesn’t take a seat but remains standing. I’ve already noticed that about him. He’s one of those people who do their best thinking while moving. He’s restless and, especially under stress, radiates a certain raw presence.

“Two weeks ago, a Black female entered an internet café in Roxbury. She produced this driver’s license.” Lotham reveals a black-and-white photocopy of the license. From this distance, I can just make out the name as Tamara Levesque. The picture is too small for me to see how much it resembles Angelique, but judging from everyone’s expression, it must be damn close.

“According to the attendant, he’d just logged her in and copied her license when her phone rang. She talked for a second, then abruptly handed over a note to the attendant along with twenty bucks. She said she had to go right now, but her class assignment had to be posted or she’d fail the course. Could he follow the instructions and do it for her? Please. Thank you. Then she was gone before he even had time to answer. Annoyed him, but twenty bucks for two minutes’ work? He went ahead and did it. Never saw the girl again.”

“My Angelique,” Guerline says.

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