Last Girl Ghosted(26)

“Everything all right?” asks Joe, startling me.

“Yes,” I lie. There’s acid in my belly and up my gullet. “Everything’s fine.”

“Find what you were looking for?”

“I think so.”

He rises and offers me a hand to help me up. I accept and he’s surprisingly strong. I stow your belongings in my messenger bag while he watches, leaving the empty box. My whole body is shaking. There’s a ringing in my ears.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Joe says with concern.

I have. I have seen a ghost. I see her every time I look in the mirror.



thirteen


I grab another Citi Bike and hoof it uptown, happy to lose myself in the exertion, tempting fate and earning angry bleats from drivers—who as a rule hate people on bicycles. They must resent our freedom, while they sit trapped in boxes, nowhere to go, snaking through this crowded city, time standing still.

Every nerve ending in my body is buzzing. Mentally, I tick through your possessions. The watch, the hoodie, the shave kit, the pen, the notebook. And the thing I almost missed. The article. The ground I thought was solid beneath my feet is quicksand. I’m sinking, nothing to grasp and keep me from drowning.

Again, I return the bike about a block away from my next meeting, and walk the rest of the distance, still reeling, trying to put pieces in this puzzle together.

I thought I was sharing the darkest part of myself.

The thing I’d kept hidden from almost everyone.

But you already knew.

How?

It doesn’t seem possible. With help, that history has been long buried. What happened to my family happened long ago, in a small town. Media coverage was blistering, but over the years so many other, more audacious horrors have captured public attention. Our ugly story has all but faded completely from public memory, thanks to short attention spans and the endless catalog of horrors that parade and preen like performers at a carnival show.

The event is there if you know what to look for, if you dig deep on the internet into horrific crimes and events. But it’s long gone for the most part. It hasn’t been rediscovered by a crime blogger or true crime podcaster, brought back to life for those who like to safely wander into darkness and see what’s there.

I even hired someone—a search engine fixer, someone who manages what people find when they enter your name into Google. Now, when you enter the name I use, you find my carefully curated social media presence, my website, a listing on the New School alumni page. A bland, forgettable presence. There’s no connection from my past to Wren Greenwood, no connection from Wren Greenwood to Dear Birdie.

I have been careful, eager to escape my past and protect my present. Just, apparently, not careful enough.

Bailey Kirk is waiting on the corner, leaning easily against a lamppost as the river of city dwellers flows by him. He doesn’t see me, at first. It’s interesting to watch people when they don’t know they’re being observed. As he was in the coffee shop, he’s relaxed but alert now. He watches people as they pass, neutral, nonjudgmental but seeing. He’s not staring at a smartphone, or blanked out, lost in thought, seeing nothing. He’s present, a rare thing. He catches sight of me and lifts his hand in a wave, which I return.

What does someone with resources like Bailey Kirk know about me? Should I tell him about my visit with Joe, the box of your belongings? No. I think I’ve decided that the quicker I get away from Bailey Kirk, the better off I’ll be. Maybe.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, as I approach.

“I keep my promises.”

We fall into step, walk up the busy sidewalk past a deli, an unmarked metal door, a posh residential lobby, a few shops, a small vegetable market. I wasn’t really paying attention when I was here the other day, having no intention of going into your office. So I’m not sure of the address, but I remember that you said there was a black awning. But as we walk, I’m not sure which building it was. I didn’t see you come out.

We walk down the other side, and back again, not speaking. He hasn’t asked about the vacation rental or whether I’ve heard from Joe, so I don’t offer up the information. I’m still not sure about him, what he knows, or what I’m ready to share.

Finally, I come to a stop under an awning that we’ve passed already.

“Maybe this is it,” I say.

“You’ve never been here before,” he asks. There’s skepticism in his tone.

“No,” I say, feeling defensive. “We were taking things slow.”

He holds the door open for me and we walk inside. Glancing around the lobby, which is unremarkable in both size and atmosphere, Kirk’s eyes finally come to rest on a camera mounted in the far corner of the lobby, a round white eye with a blue lens. There’s no doorman.

A directory on the far wall lists company names and there it is: Blackbox Cybersecurity. Eleventh floor.

I point to the listing, white plastic letters plugged onto a black board. “This is it,” I tell him.

He calls the elevator, still having exchanged the bare minimum of words. While we wait, I feel his eyes on me. When I look over, he doesn’t look away. I can’t read his expression.

“Are you okay?” he asks. There’s a kindness to the question that surprises me.

“Yes,” I lie. “I’m fine.” The truth is I’m scared of what we’re going to find upstairs.