The Vanishing Year(70)

I say nothing. Being forgiven for my choices has never been an option. I pull a piece of gooey iced roll apart and pop it in my mouth. It melts on my tongue, perfectly flaky and sweet. “Holy shit, did you make this?”

“Give me a break,” he says, his mouth twisted in a smirk. “My father was a baker. I learned from the best.”

“It’s amazing.” I pull another piece and chase it with a swig of hot coffee. Sitting here, in this cozy kitchen in the dim light of morning, I feel comfortable. Accepted. “Anyway, I wasn’t done. I ratted out what ended up being a high-profile sex-trafficking ring. I testified in a grand jury and was . . . threatened. Nearly killed because of it. That’s why I ran. Changed my name, left everything behind. Left Evelyn.” The words slide out almost easily, these words that I haven’t said to anyone in five years. It’s surprising. Cash has a stillness about him that begets confessions, like the bulk of his body can absorb shocking words, pulling them away from the source the way a tributary shunts water. It’s why I told him about Evelyn in the first place, back in the car.

“You think they’re back? These men who . . . threatened you?” Cash asks softly.

“I really do. I know it sounds crazy and I can’t prove it. Officer Yates was looking into it after the first break-in. I called the old detective from the case but he’s retired and the case is old and things get lost.” I shrug. “But now, I’m certain of it. The careening car, the missing credit card, my ransacked apartment, and the break-in last night. It’s all too coincidental. I can’t shake this feeling. And all when I’m finding Caroline, too. Then she gets this threatening phone call?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know!” I push my palm flat and hard against the tabletop. “I can’t explain it. I just feel like this is all connected somehow. I have to call Yates back today. I have to find my sister. Maybe warn Caroline. This is all on me. I’ve brought these people to their doorsteps. Maybe.”

“Zoe, you’re being way too hard on yourself. Do you hear you? None of this is your fault. Everyone has a past. In some ways, everyone runs from them. Maybe not literally.” He gives me a gentle grin. “What could they want from you after all this time? Do you think they want revenge?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s scaring me. I feel like I could jump out of my skin.” I rub my arms, trying to get warm. I stand up and fill his coffee cup, absently.

“I could get used to this. What’s your fee?” Cash laughs.

“Oh, you can’t afford me,” I joke lightly, then wince at the perceived truth in that. I shake my hands loose. “Did you paint the sun in your room?”

“Um, my little sister did. She said I needed some light in my life.” He scratches his cheek and leans back in his chair.

“Some light?”

“Oh, that came out more melodramatic than I wanted. It was right after Mary. I was in a permanent bad mood most days.” He smiles and sips his coffee, raising his eyebrows. “Hey, this is good!”

We sip in silence until he breaks it. “Do you want me to come with you?”

I think about it. “No, I don’t think so. I think I can take a cab there.”

“If you’re right, and you’re a target, should you be alone?”

“What will you do?” I tease. “Carry your baseball bat around?”

“Point taken.” He raises his cup to me. “Call me right after, okay? I’ll be worried.”

“And curious. You are a reporter.” I give him a sly smile.

“I admit. I’ll be curious. But more than that, I’ll be worried.”

“Sure, sure. But first,” I wipe my palms on my jeans, “I need to call Yates.”

? ? ?

“I don’t know, Zoe.” Yates’s voice huffs through the line, soft and kind, but doubtful. “It seems like a stretch. Everything you’re chalking up to one person could all be coincidence, or even yawing bad luck.”

“Did you look up Michael Flannery? Jared Pritchett? Remember what they did to me?” My voice hitches higher and higher and I can feel the screech in my neck, my throat. I take two deep breaths. I’m just pissed, I want to be believed. I want someone to say I’m not overreacting. Someone to say it makes sense, they’ll look into it, help me. That I’m not crazy. “Are you sure there was no one at the apartment?”

She sighs into the phone, a defeated heavy, empty sound. “There was no one there. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.”

“Can you dust for prints?” My thoughts spin, seeking something to latch on to.

“We didn’t, Zoe.” I hear the din of the office die down and I wonder if she’s taken the phone into an interview room for privacy. I’m now a call that warrants privacy. “First of all, prints are only good enough if we have someone to compare them to. That hallway has seen the building staff, repairmen, yourself, Henry. There was no evidence at that door that there was even an attempted break-in—”

“Because we ran!” I protest. Cash peeks out from the living room and mouths, Okay? I wave him away. “Cash was there, he’ll give a statement.”

“I know, Zoe. I believe you, I do. But look, it’s a resource problem. You say a man was outside your door. He didn’t do anything, didn’t take anything, we have no evidence that he was there. We can’t send techs out to dust for prints and process them through the lab when there are real crimes being committed all over Manhattan. Can you see that?”