Before She Disappeared(110)

“You can’t go backward,” I advise Angelique, “so consider this: If you can’t save the people you already lost, maybe you can save someone else instead. Become a doctor. Build a life. Livia, Deke, they would’ve wanted that for you.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I was with Deke when he died. He tried. For you and Livia. He loved his sister, and genuinely regretted what happened to you. In the end, this was more his fault than either of yours.”

“Deke tried to help,” she says, still looking down at her lap. I’m assuming she means her and Livia’s relationship. “The night, when Frédéric strangled Livia . . . He would’ve killed me next, but Deke stopped him. I was still useful, he argued. The student visas had been my idea, yes? He also convinced Frédéric to drive Livia’s body to Franklin Park. He said it would distract the police and be safer than having the cops discover her body near the rec center. But really, Deke couldn’t bear the thought of Livia being dumped in some alley. I couldn’t either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Holden shot him in the van. Emmanuel saw. Deke . . . He wasn’t a good man, he made many mistakes, especially with his sister, but I’m sorry he’s dead.”

I’m not sure what to say. I’m getting tired, the ache in my shoulder deeper. Finally: “You’re a survivor, Angelique. You’re strong, resilient. Don’t forget that. If you hadn’t risked posting the essay, dropping the fake license, appearing in public, we wouldn’t have found you. We wouldn’t have been able to save you or your brother.”

It’s not gratitude I see reflected in her eyes, however, but guilt. She wasn’t trying to save herself. She’d been trying to save Livia. And her girlfriend’s death was now her burden to bear.

“It will get better,” I repeat, though I can already tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s not ready to forgive herself yet. Maybe she never will. I understand that, too.

Angelique stands up, gives me a final, solemn nod, then departs. I manage some water, more of what I’m assuming is Viv’s homemade soup. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, refresh my bandage. The bullet graze on my right arm is already significantly healed. Which leaves only the recently stitched hole in my shoulder. That will definitely leave a scar. I can picture myself fingering it at night, reminding myself that once, I was successful. Once, I got it right.

Do I feel like a different person yet?

I keep waiting, but no such luck. I remain Frankie Elkin. Alcoholic. Ex-lover. Lost soul.

I retreat to the mattress, taking with me my brown leather messenger bag. I pull out two manila files, pore through the contents till my eyes grow heavy. When I wake up again my room is dark and a shadow looms beside my bed.

“Shhh,” Lotham says as he climbs onto the mattress beside me. “Just rest.” Then he gathers me up against him, and I feel the heat of his body. I drift off to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Later, when I wake up crying, he wipes away my tears with his fingers and then with his lips and I turn myself fully against him. I move urgently and demandingly until he finally gives up and gives in. Then we are skin to skin, gentle but rough, soft but demanding, and it is better than any drop of booze.

Afterward, I finally sleep deep and hard and when I wake up to find him gone, that’s okay, too. It makes it easier for what I have to do next.

I pick up my phone and dial. First time I’ve ever called in daylight. I’m not even sure she’ll pick up. Then:

“Frankie, please—”

“I found a missing girl. Her name is Angelique Badeau. She’s sixteen. I brought her home alive.”

A pause. “That’s . . . that’s good. Paul would like that. But you don’t need me to tell you that, Frankie. And all these years later, please, can you just stop calling? It hurts.”

“He died saying he loved you. He said . . . So many he tried to fix. But you healed him. You were the great love of his life.”

A much longer pause now. Maybe she’s crying. I know I am. I’ve never told her this before. I should’ve. But I just couldn’t. I needed, selfishly, for Paul to be about me. I needed, terribly, to keep his last moments as mine.

“Thank you,” Amy says at last. I can hear her drawing a shuddery breath.

“I’ll stop calling. I’m sorry. I don’t know why . . .”

But I do, and she does, too. Because she is all I have left of him. Just like I am her sole connection to his memory.

“Well, maybe every now and then,” she allows.

“Are you happy?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

“I have a new husband, a baby girl. Life moves on, Frankie. But thank you for calling. Thank you for telling me that.”

“Good-bye, Amy.”

“Good-bye, Frankie.”

I set down the phone. I take a deep breath. And then I’m ready. Not new and improved, but maybe the old model is better than I thought. Final shower, fresh change of clothes, then I find Stoney downstairs in his office.

He doesn’t have to ask to know. “That’s it, then? Back on the road?”

I nod.

“You can keep the apartment till the end of the month. Longer, if you want to return to work.”

I nod.

“Bet there’s more cases around here. Maybe people will even come to you, as word gets out.” He studies me. I love the lines of his face, a man who’s known heartache but also hope.