All the Missing Girls(78)

The secrets this house had kept locked away, mine included. Daniel’s and my father’s and those that belonged to the generation before. In the walls, under the floorboards, within the earth. I imagined Corinne shaking out a can of gasoline and me taking a match to the splintered edge of the porch, both of us standing too close as the wood warped and popped, the house igniting, turning to rubble, to smoke and ash. The flames jumping to the extended branch of a tree, taking the woods along with them.

“What are you doing?”

I peered over my shoulder, at Tyler walking from his truck, his legs moving as slowly as mine had.

I turned back to the house—to my window above the sloped roof. “Imagining a fire,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, his hand on the small of my back as he stood beside me. He watched the same splintered porch, the same window, and I could imagine him picturing the same thing. “When did you last eat?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Come on. I picked up dinner.”



* * *



THE BAR WAS SOMBER, but it wasn’t empty. Tyler stood between me and the door, obstructing the view as we walked past the entrance, the bag of Chinese takeout tucked under his arm. I followed him up the narrow stairwell, took the bag from him as he unlocked the door and held it open for me with his foot.

“So, this is it,” he said.

I left the bag of food on the kitchen island directly to my left. The place could use some upgraded appliances, a fresh coat of paint, a throw rug or two over the scuffed wood floors, but in other ways, it suited him perfectly. It had what he needed: couch, TV, kitchen, bedroom. If something didn’t matter to Tyler, he didn’t do it for the sake of anyone else. He unloaded the food, serving it on ceramic plates, while I wandered the apartment, checking out the details.

His bed was made. He had a queen, and the comforter was plain and beige. The dresser that he’d had growing up was in the corner, and there was a newer one that was so far from matching, it somehow managed to work. The bathroom door was open—shaving cream on the counter, soap in a dish. I checked the closet on the way out. Men’s clothes only, camping gear in the corner.

“Does it pass inspection?” he called as I wandered back to the kitchen. He handed me a plate over the island.

“You got my favorite,” I said.

“I know I did.” He walked to the couch, slid to the floor, his back resting against the cushions, and placed two beers on the coffee table in front of him.

I sat beside him on the floor. “Not a fan of chairs, I see.”

“I’ve only been here six months. Chairs are next on my list,” he said, scooping fried rice into his mouth. “Nic,” he said, pointing his fork to the plate in front of me, “you really need to eat something.”

My stomach clenched as I stared at the pile of food. I took a sip of the beer, leaning back against the couch. “What kind of purse did Annaleise use?” I asked.

I felt Tyler tense beside me. “I don’t want to talk about Annaleise.”

“It’s important. I need to know.”

“Okay. It was . . .” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know, it was dark green.”

“But do you know the brand?”

“No, I definitely don’t know the brand. Are you going to tell me why you’re asking?”

“We found something in my group. A buckle. From a Michael Kors purse. Down by the river.” I took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure it’s hers.”

He slid his plate onto the table, took a long pull from the beer bottle. “And where is this buckle now?”

I looked over at him, into his bloodshot eyes. “In the garbage can in the women’s restroom of CVS.”

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Nic, you can’t do this. You can’t mess with the investigation or people will wonder why. I really think she’s fine.”

“I really think she’s not,” I said. “I think when people disappear, it’s because they’re not okay, Tyler.”

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” I said, resting my head on my arm, wiping away the evidence. “Sorry. God. I’ve barely slept in—what, almost three days?—and I’m losing it.”

“You’re not losing it,” he said. “You’re here with me, and you’re fine.”

I laughed. “That’s not the definition of fine. I feel like the whole world is off balance. Like I’m losing my shit. Like there’s this cliff and I don’t even realize I’m on the edge.”

“But you do realize it, and that’s the definition of holding your shit together.”

I shook my head but took a bite of the pork roll, forcing it down. “Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Not really.”

Our plates sat on the table beside half-empty bottles of beer.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said.

“We’re just friends having dinner after a really shitty day.”

“Are we? Friends, I mean?”

“We’re whatever you want us to be, Nic.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”