The Vanishing Year(74)

JAREd

The ugly word is scrawled with a dull straightedge. Words carved into metal are violent by nature, the message is practically irrelevant. The letters themselves are sinister, the way magazine clippings pasted on paper are indicative of ransom notes.

But this, this note is meant for me. In a way Lydia or Javi or Elisa could never know. The small d hovers slightly lower than the rest of his name. It’s the brand, inside Rosie’s mouth, that deliberate small d clinging to the corner of the E.

The blood rushes to my head. I feel at once hot and sick, a sheen of sweat coats my arms and I feel it down my spine below my bra strap, one single drip of fluid tracing lazily down my backbone. I sway and from what sounds like the inside of a tunnel, Cash yells, “Catch her!” but I don’t remember anything else.





CHAPTER 23



The first person I see when I open my eyes is Officer Yates, her rounded dark eyes, long lashes, bright lipstick. My first thought is, Why am I sleeping at the shop? Elisa peers over Yates’s shoulder, her face a mask of concern mixed with something else. Anger? Latent impatience at the very least.

I forget, then remember, seemingly at the same time. “How long was I out?” I sit up but feel sick and sink into the velvet-covered pink office chair that has been brought over just for me.

“No more than a minute.” Cash is on one knee next to the chair, leaning close. The smell of his aftershave turns my stomach.

“I just got here,” Yates offers. Elisa brings me water and I can’t help but enjoy it, just a little. Elisa, waiting on me. Elisa, who once sent me to Duane Reade to buy a pencil sharpener. Twice. Because it’s apparently possible to buy the wrong kind. Yates stands up and motions everyone back, long nails flickering. “Give her some space, okay? Let me talk to her.”

They disperse. Javi pouts with his broom, pushing it insolently into corners. Elisa pretends to flip through paperwork.

Yates pats my hand while I ask her about the man at the back door. She has a report from the night before she wants me to sign.

“I’m sorry we can’t do more, there’s just nothing to investigate.” She raises her eyebrows, and all I see is doubt.

Cash overhears and chimes in, “I was there. I saw the same thing Zoe did. There was someone at that back door. The door handle jiggled.”

“I believe you.” She pats Cash on the shoulder, placating. It’s just no use. The word resources bounces around in my mind.

“What about Jared Pritchett? Did you look him up?” I press my left palm onto hers, so our hands make a sandwich, and close my eyes. A chill goes up my spine, like the trill of a xylophone. “Mick Flannery exists. This is all connected. Do you believe me now?”

“I do. I did before, but this helps.” She waves her arm around the mess and smiles a little, unexpectedly, flashing a nicotine-stained incisor at me. “I have ideas though. Give me time, okay. I believe you, I do. I looked up your testimony. This was some heavy shit, girl. Those kinds of crime rings are not run by one or two people. It’s usually more like thirty. Fifty. This?” She motions toward the counter, the mess. “This is revenge, pure simple. To terrify you.”

“Then what? Kill me?” My mind flashes back to the stripped-down van. That bloodstain. That child’s lacy sock. My stomach roils.

“Zoe, there are officers stationed at your apartment. We’ll protect you.”

“I need to call Henry.” My tongue feels coated in sawdust.

“Do you have a place to go?”

I look at Elisa. Javi. Lydia. They all blink at me, silent. Then, Lydia nods her head, just once.

“Yes.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Henry stands in the doorway of the shop, his hands on his hips. At the sight of him, my chest pops with relief. He looks like hell, his hair is disheveled, his face is red on one side, like he’s been sleeping on it. I push up off the chair and I’m across the room in seconds. I stand in front of him, unsure, until he pulls me against his chest, which feels foreign and familiar at the same time.

“You’re here. How? I didn’t even have time to call you.”

“Zoe, I tried to call you, about ten times. You tell me someone is chasing you and then I hear nothing back. Except you stayed at Lydia’s.” He surveys the room and sees Elisa, and gives her a nod of recognition.

Lydia opens her mouth to protest and then closes it, shakes her head, keeping the secret. I half thought she’d blurt it out, right there: Zoe didn’t stay with me. Despite our gulf, she keeps it.

Yates pulls me away from Henry and I realize the refrigerator still hums in the corner, spitting out cold air through the broken glass. My arms gooseflesh. “Zoe, listen to me. I need you to be careful, do you understand me? You can’t go back to your apartment. We’ll put you under surveillance. Come to the station.”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

“Not an option. I’m getting her out of here.” Henry crosses his arms over his chest. This is his Henry pose, the one I’ve seen at parties; where most men relax, hold a drink, let their arms drape around a woman’s shoulders, Henry stands like he is keeping guard. He, himself, is a counterargument. His hand on Pink Spandex. His eyes flick to Cash, cold and dismissive. His expression, tight eyebrows, slightly turned chin, say, We have things to discuss. I wonder then if he will bring an agenda. He turns to Yates. “Is she done?”