Page 73 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 19

It is a bright, sunny morning as I head down the final few blocks to the Samdis’ apartment. Even with daylight on my side, I find myself hunching my shoulders and gazing around nervously. If Mattapan is a mix of good and bad neighborhoods, this isn’t one of the good ones.

Rusted chain-link fences buckle and gape, revealing modest yards long on neglect—abandoned piles of battered kids’ toys, drifts of dead shrubs, borders of shattered beer bottles and used condoms. Each triple-decker seems determined to appear even more broken down than its neighbor. I honestly can’t tell who’s winning.

This isn’t the place to be after dark. I’m not even sure it’s somewhere I should be now, as I feel eyes starting to fall upon me, and more and more human-sized silhouettes appear at the windows to monitor my progress. I am definitely an outsider here.

Deep breath. In through my mouth. Exhaling through my nose. Not the first time I’ve been through this. Stay calm, relaxed, focus. I’m not a threat. I have no issues. Just a couple of questions for the family.

On my right, the front door opens and three African American males come strolling out, crossing their arms over their muscled chests and pinning me with their best thousand-yard stare. Followed by similar movement from the house across the street. Then up ahead to the right. Then left.

Am I this unwanted here?

I arrive at the Samdis’ building, which is neither the best nor worst on the block. The narrow triple-decker has shed huge flakes of dark green paint, while the stacked front deck sags dangerously forward. A giant piece of plywood patches a hole along the right side. Two more are nailed on the roof.

I don’t have to open the front gate. It’s already collapsed, the front corner gouged deep into the earth. I shimmy around it, kicking a deflated soccer ball that plows into a pile of empty booze bottles. I startle from the noise, snag my jacket on the rusty chain link, and tear a hole.

“Shit!” I curse, then belatedly catch myself. Relaxed and focused. The family I need to speak with are looking for reasons not to like me, excuses not to help. My job is not to give them one.

I pick my way up the front steps. One of the boards is so rotted, I skip over it completely, landing harder than I would like on the one above. I feel it shake upon impact, and clamber up the remaining stairs in a burst of adrenaline.

The second I hit the landing, the front door opens. A young Black male stands before me in a white tank top, and sagging dark jeans. He wears his hair in a million braids, curving back from his face before falling like a curtain to his shoulders. He has a giant diamond stud in one ear, and enough ink sleeving his forearms and twining around his neck to serve as a second shirt. Even looking straight at him, it’s impossible to see behind the confusion of tattoos, jewelry, and hair extensions. Urban camouflage.

“We don’t want you here,” he states. His eyes are dark and flat.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Samdi,” I say.

“We don’t want you here.”

“It’s regarding her daughter, Livia.”

“Get the fuck off my property.”

“Do you own the whole house?” I ask him curiously. “What a great accomplishment. And at such a young age, too.”

A single slow blink. “No white bitches wanted here.”

“Okay, but I’m a cheap white bitch. Surely that counts for something? My specialty is locating missing persons, free of charge. I’m already in the area looking for Angelique Badeau. Maybe you know her?”

“Fuck off.”

“Are you Livia’s brother? Uncle? Random acquaintance? I understand from the police the family believes Livia ran away. I respectfully disagree. I think her vanishing act has something to do with Angelique’s disappearance and I’d like to help both of them.”

“You hard of hearing, lady? Go. The fuck. Away.” Two steps forward now. His tough words aren’t getting the job done, so he’s throwing his body behind them. He’s five ten and a solid one eighty of sculpted muscle. I have exactly... nothing... on him.

“I’m here for Mrs. Samdi,” I repeat, more quickly now. “If she wants me to go, I’ll go. But not before I see her. Look, I’m not here to jam you up or judge your family. I don’t work for the police, the press, anyone. I’m here solely for the missing and I need just a few minutes of your mother’s time. Five. Five minutes. Who knows, by the end, maybe both she and I can do some good.”

The boy—who has to be Livia’s older brother—opens his mouth again. His hands are fisted, his throat corded. I’m already leaning back, wishing I’d left about two seconds earlier, when a tired, ragged voice comes from inside the house.

“Let her in, Johnson.”

My greeter scowls, loosens his fists.

“Johnson?” I mouth at him, one brow arched.

“J.J.,” he snaps back.

J.J. lets me pass by, nodding across the street at the many loitering, heavily muscled youths still keeping watch. His friends? His gang? It doesn’t really matter. O’Shaughnessy had pegged Livia’s brother as a drug dealer. Which makes it in my own best interest to keep my head down and eyes on the floor as he leads me down the hall to the rear of the building.

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