Page 50 of Good Half Gone

“He’s a street jockey, Millar Polar. Runs drugs, sometimes watches the goods—he was there the day of the raid. He’s claiming the photos were left with him by someone else. He won’t tell us who.”

“Millar Polar,” I repeated. Another name to add to the investigation—hers and mine.

“Take a look, tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.” She set his booking photo down in front of me. I was too afraid to look at it. The duvet my sister was lying on in the Polaroid was still swimming in my vision. Even when I closed my eyes it was there, floating across my eyelids like a light show. I wanted to be sick—and I probably would if Poley didn’t give me space. She hovered like a mosquito.

“Give me a minute, will you…”

When she didn’t back up, I stood abruptly, almost knocking her over, and walked to the doorway. It was glass and I could see other glass doors, people going in and out of them. Poley cleared her throat behind me, but I ignored her. We’d waited five years to hear something, agonized over the lack of police work, and she was rushing me?

I turned to face Poley. Her eyes were pressing me so hard I felt choked all over again. Sweating, I stiffly returned to my seat, and she tapped the photo with her finger, trying to get me to look. I braced myself for the worst, and the worst was what I got.

My throat closed twice before I could get the words out. “He looks just like RJ.” He was ragged, meth-faced. I’d thought him older back then, maybe in his early twenties, but I’d been so wrong. He looked to be at least forty in the photo.

“He looks older,” I said.

“It’s been five years, Iris.”

My eyes snapped to her face. “Thank you, Amanda, for reminding me. My son and I are quite aware how long my sister has been gone. I meana lotolder—like twenty years. Does this guy have a kid?”

“I don’t know,” she said, bored. “Why?”

“Because this isn’t RJ. It looks just like him, though…”

“Oh.”

She was disappointed. She double-checked the photo herself, large, empty eyes glancing over Millar Polar. I had the feeling she’d been hoping to walk out of here a hero.

“Maybe that’s where he got the photos. It would make sense that he’s trying to protect his kid.”

She made a face. “I’ll check it out.”

It was then I noticed the sizable diamond on her ring finger. It was too pretty for the bitten-down nails and short sausage fingers.

“You’re engaged.” I could hear the accusation in my voice.

She must have heard it too; she didn’t look at me when she said, “Yeah.”

“Great,” I lied.You’re engaged and my sister is still missingsat heavy between us… I hoped her mother was planning her wedding; Amanda didn’t excel at putting things together.

“I have to get back to my son,” I said, standing up. “You’ll call me?”

“As soon as we question him.”

“Which will be when?”

The V between her eyebrows activated. “Have a nice day, Iris.”

She was still the same uptight bitch she’d been the first day I met her. I stomped out to my car, slamming doors and muttering under my breath. We didn’t just deserve answers about my sister, we had Cal to think of. Cal, who’d have his own questions when the time came, and as of now, I couldn’t answer any of them.

His paternity haunted me at random times—when I brushed his dark, wavy hair or tickled him and heard his raspy laugh—a laugh that wasn’t in our family. Would his father come back for him? Would my sister?

Chapter17Present

I’M Having Breakfastin the patient cafeteria. The food is mushy, but the coffee is better than in the staff cafeteria. I’m contemplating why—because it’s something nicer to think about than the alternative. Which is that I couldn’t sleep—can’tsleep in this place. There are too many people in one space all breathing, dreaming, grunting, and sweating. Which therapist had said that sleeping was an act of trust? I can’t remember because I’m tired. I would have been a lousy soldier.

I sip my coffee as two patients trickle in, then three. It’s my second morning eating here; these were the same three who came in first yesterday. Heading for the buffet, they pile sealed containers onto red trays. I glance down at my congealing oatmeal. It’s still dark outside; I slept for a few hours, but the foot traffic to the bathroom woke me, then kept me awake.

The patient cafeteria has purple tables and bench chairs. The air is less charged. Everyone does what they’re here to do: eat. No one takes any pleasure in it; there’s a mechanical spooning,the sound of chewing, and an occasional grunt. Here, no one speaks, but everyone watches. It’s a gift lost to the neurotypical.

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