Page 60 of The Missing Half

Chapter Thirty-one

I am numb. For days after that conversation with Jenna, I go through the motions of my life, mindless and blank. A puppet on strings. In the mornings, I call my lawyer and start the process of yet another legal entanglement, then I go to work, where I sling pizza and mop vomit and sing the birthday song. In the evenings, I drink.

I’ve given up on cutting back, and I can’t seem to remember why I was trying to in the first place. It’s not like I can drive anymore. I haven’t picked up my car from the impound lot where it was towed, so I couldn’t make that mistake again even if I tried. And without Jenna to push me in the case, I don’t know where to go or what to do. On top of all of that, with everything that’s happened over the past month, I don’t want this numbness to pass. I don’t want to feel whatever comes next. I want to disappear.

It’s Friday night, five days since I last saw Jenna. When I walk into my apartment after work, the first thing I do is grab an open bottle of wine from the counter and pour some into a thrift-store mug, the closest clean thing I can find. My phone vibrates from my back pocket and I pull it out. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

“Nic?” a woman says. Her voice is familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Who is this?”

“Pam.” When I don’t say anything, she adds in a slightly irritated tone, “From the animal shelter?”

“Oh.” I give my phone a bewildered look. Pam has never called me and I wonder vaguely what I’ve done to deserve it. Did I accidentally skip my visit last weekend? Did I forge her signature on my hour sheet? But the days are a jumbled blur. “Hi.”

“This may be silly,” she says. “But, I don’t know, I thought you may want a heads-up before you come in tomorrow.”

“About what?”

“Well…Banksy was adopted today.”

Pam continues talking, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. The only thing in my brain is Banksy. Banksy with his crooked tail and one eye. Banksy with his mottled fur and skinny neck, his surly moods interrupted by surprising bursts of sweetness. I think of the time Jenna and I visited him and, after glaring in our direction for half an hour, he tiptoed over and curled into my lap.

Pam is midsentence when I mumble something and hang up.

The moment the call disconnects, something inside me snaps. Everything that has happened these past few weeks—learning about Kasey’s affair, my confrontation of Brad, getting arrested, Jenna abandoning me, now this—it all falls onto my shoulders, and I buckle beneath its weight. I slam the mug of wine into the sink, where it shatters, then bend over and let out a choked, silent scream. Tears spill onto the floor. A string of saliva falls from my mouth.

I didn’t think there was a chance Banksy would get adopted. I thought I’d have time to work up the courage to do it myself. But, like always, I was too fearful, too weak. I don’t bother to wipe the tears from my cheeks. I just grab the open bottle of wine by the neck and drink.

—

The next morning, my vomit is burgundy. The sight of it sloshing into the toilet bowl turns my stomach, and I retch again, which makes my aching head throb. I wipe the back of my wrist against my forehead and it comes back slick with sweat. My body is trying toturn itself inside out, to punish me for all my bad decisions, and I don’t blame it.

I flush the toilet, then slowly, shakily get to my feet and pad into the kitchen, where I’m met by the scene of my self-destruction—the sink stained red, littered with pieces of the broken mug. Next to it are an oily baking sheet I used to make a frozen pizza for dinner and a plate of half-eaten crusts. Heaving a sigh, I walk to the sink and begin to pluck the pieces of ceramic out one by one, then toss them into the trash.

About halfway through, my phone chimes with an incoming email. I dig it out from the pocket of my sweatpants and click on the message, which I see with surprise is from Detective Aimes, the new missing-persons detective over at Grand Rapids, the one who inherited the case when Wyler got promoted. As I promised I would, I’d emailed her that night Jenna and I went through the stuff I found in Kasey’s and my old car.

Hi Nic,

Apologies for the delay; our team was wrapping up an investigation. I’d be happy to speak to you about your sister’s case. Can you come to the Grand Rapids station? Below are the days and times I’m available next week. Let me know if any work for you.

I stare at the message, taken aback. I’d all but forgotten I reached out to her, and my first instinct is to close my inbox, crawl back into bed, and respond to the email later—or, more realistically, ignore it until I’ve forgotten it was ever sent. I’m tired, and burned out from disappointment, and I don’t know how to continue this investigation without Jenna to help me.

But just as I go to click out of the app, my last conversation with Jenna pops into my head. I realize now just how right she was—I never finish anything. I gave up on my first cat, and I lost Banksy because I was too scared to fail again. If not for Brad, I would’ve been fired from Funland years ago. I couldn’t even get through probation without fucking it up. And if I’m being honest, totally and ruthlessly honest, despite what I told Jenna that day, I don’t think Iever really intended to see our sisters’ cases through. Not without her.

I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep avoiding my pain by drinking myself to sleep and hoping someone else will come along and clean up after me. I can’t keep bailing when something starts to get scary.

I look at the second bottle of wine I got into last night. Without letting myself rethink it, I grab the bottle by the neck, pull out its cork, and turn it upside down over the sink. The liquid pours out in loud glugs. There are two more bottles on the counter, both of which are unopened. I grab them too, twisting the corkscrew into one, then the other. Soon, they’re empty. I turn on the faucet and watch as the water clears away the wine, and by the time the last red drop vanishes, I’ve made up my mind.

I’m going to make a pot of coffee, take a shower, and email Detective Aimes back. Because I am going to finish what Jenna started. I have to. Not for her or Jules or even Kasey, but for me.

Chapter Thirty-two

Three days later, I walk through the front door of the Grand Rapids police station. It’s quiet today, the lobby empty except for me and the receptionist behind glass. I give him my name, and he calls Detective Aimes to let her know I’m here. A moment later, a voice rings through the lobby.

“You must be Nic.”

I turn to see a woman standing in the doorway that leads to the offices in the back. She looks to be in her midforties with brown eyes and matching hair, cut into a chin-length bob. She’s wearing plain clothes, a white button-down and slacks, which puts me at ease. I know I’ve brought all my legal shit down upon myself, but still, I’ve had enough uniforms to last me a lifetime.

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