Page 9 of Before She Disappeared

Fifth home down the block, with bay windows and a sturdier-looking front porch. This is it. I double check the house number to be sure, then note the light glowing from the second-floor apartment that is listed as belonging to Angelique Badeau’s aunt.

This is the moment it becomes real. Where I go from being well-intentioned to being fully committed. I don’t know what will happen next. A tentative welcome, a harsh refusal. A wailing torrent of desperate grief, or steely-eyed suspicion. I’ve experienced it all, and it never gets any less nerve-racking.

From here on out, my job is to listen, accept, adapt.

And hope, really, truly hope, they don’t hate me too much.

Lani Whitehorse’s grandmother hugged me in the end, though the tribal council pointedly gave me their backs.

I remind myself I’m good at what I do.

I swear to myself that I will make a difference.

I think, uneasily, that like any addict, lying is what I do best.

I head up the front steps.

—

On the front porch, I encounter six buzzers, meaning the triple-decker hasn’t been carved up only by level, but within each floor as well. Beneath the buzzers is a line of black-painted mailboxes, each one locked tight. It’s a simple but efficient system for the apartment dwellers. I try the front door just in case but am not surprised to find it bolted tight. Next, I press the first few ringers, prepared to announce myself as delivery and see if I can get lucky, but no one answers.

Which leaves me with the direct approach. I hit 2B. After a moment, a male voice, younger, higher, answers. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Guerline Violette.”

“She know you?”

“I’m here regarding Angelique.”

Pause. Angelique has a younger brother, Emmanuel, also a teen. I would guess this is him, particularly as his tone is already defensive with an edge of sullen. He sounds like someone whose been subjected to too many experts and well-wishers and been disappointed by all of them.

“You a reporter?” he demands now.

“No.”

“Cop?”

“No.”

“My aunt’s busy.”

“I’m here to help.”

“We heard that before.” I can practically feel the eye roll across the intercom. Definitely a teen.

“My time is free and I’m experienced.”

“Whatdya mean?”

“If I can talk to Guerline, I’d be happy to explain in person.”

Another pause. Then a female voice takes over the intercom.

“Who are you and why are you bothering us?” Guerline’s voice ripples with hints of sea and sand. Her niece and nephew immigrated to Boston as young children a decade ago, along with tens of thousands of other Haitians after Port-au-Prince was nearly flattened by an earthquake. Emmanuel has grown up in Boston and sounds it. But his aunt has retained the music of her native island.

“My name is Frankie Elkin. I’m an expert in missing persons. I’ve been following your niece’s disappearance and I believe I can help.”

“You are a reporter, yes?”

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