The Vanishing Year(28)

“It’s so complicated. I’d do several things at once. I’d run all the births, like I said, then depending what returned, I’d study all the names and try to make a connection between the name the agency has and the names on the hospital lists. I’d expect a fake name at the hospital, too, unless she had insurance, which I doubt. I’d try to figure out the connection between the Connecticut hospital and the agency in California. I’d try to figure out why your adoptive mother ended up adopting a baby from Connecticut.”

I feel overwhelmed. I want to toss the papers across the table and tell him to call me when he finds her. Instead, I gather everything, yanking the adoption memo from his hands, and shove it all back into my purse. Tears prick under my eyelids and I don’t exactly know why.

“Oh, Zoe, come on. I’m sorry. You asked me!” Cash puts his hand on my arm and I pull it away. “Just stay for coffee, we can talk about the story. Don’t go.”

I hesitate, but stand up. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you, okay?” When I turn to leave, I stumble over the chair and it crashes to the ground. I don’t pick it up and hurry out the front door.

On the walk home, I feel so stupid. The entire day is eerily off-kilter, even the mood has changed again. The sky has darkened to a deep black and before I reach my apartment, fat drops of rain start to fall, a loud splattering sound that foreshadows an incoming downpour. I hurry past the doorman with only a brief wave.

I struggle with my card key, flipping it one way, then the other, before I can get the lock to disengage. I’m cursing at the door by the time I hear the release click. I push open the door and flick the hall light.

“Oh, my God,” I say out loud, to no one.

The apartment is a disaster. End tables are upturned, drawers emptied on the carpet, broken glass everywhere. The brown velvet couch, with its intricately carved legs, has been violently ripped open, its cushions cut and the stuffing grotesquely exposed. I swallow the sick in the back of my throat.

Someone has come back for me.





CHAPTER 9



In the back of my closet is a soft-cornered shoe box and I’m relieved to see it’s untouched. Underneath a pair of suede chocolate Mary Janes is a dog-eared business card with Detective Maslow’s contact information. I dial the number and sit cross-legged on the bed.

When the other line picks up, I rush on, talking over the clipped, soft voice on the phone. “Hello, this is Zoe Whittaker. I mean, Swanson. Hilary Lawlor.” And then I laugh because it sounds ridiculous.

“How can I help you?” The woman sounds like she’s speaking through a tin can.

“I need to speak with Detective Maslow. It’s an emergency.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Not immediately, I don’t think. My apartment has been broken into. But there’s no one here now.” My fingers are tapping on my knee; I can’t seem to sit still.

“Hold, please.” A hold line clicks on and I hear classical music, which strikes me as ironic. Anyone calling this line is dealing with a possible life-or-death situation. Here, have some Chopin. “Detective Maslow, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Maslow retired close to three years ago. Do you have a case number?”

“I do.” I relay the seventeen-digit number back to her, written in Maslow’s careful script on the back of the business card. Maslow. With his painfully thin frame and jutting cheekbones, but honest smile and appraising eyes.

She murmurs the numbers back to me and puts me on hold again. Pachelbel this time. I pace the length of the bed, sit, stand up again, walk the hallway, all while being careful to avoid the toppled boxes spilling from the closet.

“Ms. Lawlor?” She clicks back on the line. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I need to know if Michael Flannery or Jared Pritchett is out on parole?”

There is silence and clacking while she types. “Ms. Lawlor? I don’t see these names in here. What do you want this information for?”

“Five years ago, I testified against them in a grand jury. Then I was kidnapped and brutally beaten for information, which I did not have. Then I ran away, forgoing witness protection. Now, my apartment is broken into. Can you see why I might be concerned that one of these men are paroled?”

“I understand. I will work on sorting this out. I’ll contact Maslow. In the meantime, I encourage you to contact your local police department regarding your break-in.”

“That’s it?” The abandonment feels like a heavy boulder on my breastbone and I can’t breathe.

“Call us back after you talk to the police. Make sure to get the report number.”

“The report number.” I repeat dumbly. “Okay.”

We hang up and I sink down onto the floor. I stare at the paper in my hand and know I won’t call back. It was a risk in the first place. Then I panic, wondering if they’ll trace my call. If Maslow will come out of retirement to find his missing witness. I stole their money. It’s laughable, no one cares anymore. It occurs to me that I could probably find out what happened to Jared or Mick myself.

I call Henry. I don’t call him at work often because he generally calls me several times a day. I’m surprised when he doesn’t pick up. I get voicemail at his office and cell phone. I pick up the phone and stare at the numbers, trying to think of who else I can call. I think of Lydia and her ’Enry ’Iggins.