Last Girl Ghosted(17)
I have to admit I’m the most surprised of all by the runaway success of the column, the podcast. Even the television option looks promising. There are just so many people out there lost in this modern world, looking for a connection. Dear Birdie gives that to them, even if they are among the majority who never write or leave a voice message.
Even if they’re just out there alone reading or listening.
My doorbell rings. I’m so lost in thought that the sound moves through me like a Taser. I practically leap off the couch where I’ve curled myself up in a ball, and race to the door. I don’t even look before I swing it open, so sure that it’s you with flowers, with words that explain this weirdness. You’ll wear that crooked smile. We’ll laugh about it all.
But it’s not you.
It’s a man I don’t recognize with icy green-gray eyes, close shorn blond hair. He stands at an angle on the stairs, halfway up as though he’s moved back down after ringing the bell to keep a polite distance. Leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his bomber jacket, he offers a low-wattage smile.
“Wren Greenwood?”
I move back behind the door a bit. He doesn’t move forward to close the distance I’m trying to create between us. So far, no one has tried to find out Dear Birdie’s true identity, but I’m always afraid that the day will come. The tsunami of mail, some of it from regulars, can get dark. Some people are grateful, but some are angry. Many benefit from the advice I have to give, but a few hate me, blame me for mistakes they have made based on how they interpreted my words. There have been a few death threats. We all agree that it’s better if Dear Birdie remains anonymous.
“Can I help you?”
He takes out a tattered brown identification wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Holding his ID out to me, he says, “My name is Bailey Kirk. I am a private investigator licensed by the state of New York.”
“What can I do for you?” I say, wary. He puts the wallet away and moves forward to hold out his phone.
“Do you know this man?”
Curiosity pulls me from the safety of my house to look more closely at the image there.
My breath leaves me when I see that it’s you, Adam.
Your hair is different, shorter and maybe a little lighter. Your skin is tan, as if you’ve been on vacation. You look relaxed, happy in a way that is unfamiliar to me. I wonder where you were when this picture was taken. I’m jealous in a weird way that I am not there with you, that I never saw that look on your face in real time.
I step back from the stranger. I’ve already forgotten his name. This time, he does come up a stair, moving closer. I haven’t answered him, but a knowledge has passed between us. You wear your heart on your sleeve, my mother always said. I could never hide anything from her, from anyone.
“Can we talk, Ms. Greenwood?” he asks. He lifts a palm. “I don’t have to come in. We could walk to that coffee place on the corner.”
He nods over toward the shop where I stop most mornings when I’m heading into Manhattan. His manner, his tone, is gentle, polite. But he stays rooted, that smile unwavering. There’s something steely to him, something solid. He’s not just going to go away. I feel frozen, uncertain, blood rushing in my ears. When I still don’t say anything, he goes on.
“My client has hired me to find this man. He was dating my client’s daughter when she disappeared nine months ago.”
He taps on his device and holds out his phone again.
This time there’s a willowy girl with faceted hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles, a bounce of golden curls. Her smile seems somehow radiant and sad at once; her gaze almost imploring. She’s your type; I can tell. She and I don’t look alike; if she seems sun-kissed and bubbly, I am cool and quiet. My hair is dark, my eyes a deep blue. But there’s something about her that I know I see when I look in the mirror. What is it?
My heart is thumping again, dread finding an acidic home in my belly.
“I’ll just get my coat,” I say. It comes out like a whisper. He nods and moves off the steps and stands on the street, waiting—arms folded, legs akimbo.
“Take your time,” he says. I wonder if he’ll start walking toward the coffee shop. Grabbing my phone from the couch, my bag and coat from the hallway foyer. I think I should text Jax to say what’s happening but then I just don’t. I lock the door and turn to find him still standing there.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I stay, hand on the knob.
“Bailey Kirk with the Turner and Ives Agency,” he says easily into the awkward silence, as if he suspects I’ve already forgotten. “I’ll wait if you want to check my credentials.”
That picture of you. So far, I haven’t admitted that I know you. In fact, I haven’t said much at all. I could just go back in, lock my door, and refuse to talk to this guy. He’s not a cop; he has no authority over me or anything.
He starts walking slowly, a glance back at me to see if I’m following. I hesitate, considering my options. Finally, curiosity gets the better of me. I move down the stairs and follow him.
nine
The coffee shop is overwarm and crowded on a weekday midmorning, populated by Brooklyn creatives with AirPods, open laptops, and man buns. There’s even a guy in a flannel shirt with one of those full beards that looks like a bush is growing on his face. I am really eager for that particular trend to die.