Before She Disappeared(12)

“So this fifteen-year-old girl ran off to avoid deportation?”

“She changed her clothes.” Viv’s voice had dropped lower. “Least that’s what I heard. And left her phone behind. That sounds like a girl with a plan. God knows I’d never get a cell phone out of my grandbabies’ hands.”

I nod, chew my burger. Those details bother me, too. It did sound premeditated. The question remained, was it willing? As in, did Angelique place her backpack under that bush, or did someone rip it off her back and kick it there to avoid detection? If the police had any video of the event, they weren’t saying. But I was willing to bet they didn’t know that answer themselves. If there’d been solid evidence of abduction, the case would’ve rocketed immediately to an Amber Alert scenario. The fact that it took days for the police to fully engage told me there’d been doubt in the beginning. Maybe Angelique had a history of disappearing. Not something I’d wanted to ask the family during our first meeting. Our second meeting, on the other hand . . .

“So, the locals think Angelique skipped out to avoid possible deportation?”

“Girl’s spent most of her life here. You think she wants to go back?”

“Her mother still lives there,” I say, then add hastily, “At least that’s what I read.”

Viv rolls her eyes at me, pointing the metal flipper at the stack of white plates. Belatedly, I put down my half-eaten dinner, quickly wash my hands, and get back to plating. Viv bangs out the fries.

“The missing girl has a brother and aunt here. If she wanted to stay in the U.S., why leave them?” I ask, splitting buns onto the plates. “Now she’s all alone.” Viv tosses on the patties, I quickly add toppings. No custom orders, I’d already realized. Stoney ran a tight ship.

Viv gestures for two more plates. She splits the fry basket of chicken wings between the two, then adds more fries to all. From next to the silverware, she grabs a plastic squeeze bottle and squirts a deep red sauce into tiny bowls for dipping. The sauce smells slightly of barbecue, but is thinner, spicier.

“Your secret sauce?” I question.

“Stoney handles the wing sauce. Mine’s for sandwiches.”

“Do I get to invent one?”

“Gotta earn your stripes. ’Sides, what does a skinny girl like you know of cooking?”

“Not much.” Especially given that I hadn’t owned pots and pans, let alone a house, in nearly a decade.

I splay out three plates along one arm, grab the fourth in my right hand, and whirl out the door for delivery. Stoney nods his acknowledgment as he pours a beer at the tap, then jerks his chin toward a new ticket. I grab the order for more wings, then return to the kitchen, where Viv is already back to grilling.

“Pretty girl like that,” Viv says, returning to the subject of Angelique. “I’m guessing a boy. She falls in love. Doesn’t want to leave him. So off they go.”

“Wouldn’t there be two missing kids, then?”

“Assuming he’s a kid. Again, pretty girl like that.”

Viv raises a good point. The family insisted Angelique didn’t have a boyfriend, but as I’d already learned many times, the family is often the last to know. Better source of info on a teenage girl? Her friends.

I’m sure the police questioned them, too, but here’s one area where I have the advantage: Plenty of people don’t feel comfortable talking to cops. Whereas I’m just some random lady asking questions. Odd, but not threatening. Tracking down Angelique’s best buds will be one of my first projects tomorrow. After getting some sleep.

Now, I gulp down the rest of my dinner, then tend to my plate. The kitchen is too small for a commercial dishwasher, but the powerful spray nozzle over the deep stainless-steel basin is blistering enough to sanitize just about anything.

“Need any more help?” I ask Viv, drying my hands.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“I’ll see you then.” I hesitate. Time to head upstairs, my first night in my new room, with my new roommate. “Chicken livers?” I question.

Viv cackles. “No worries. Your roomie is out for the night.”

“She has a social life?”

“She has a job. Rodent control. Why do you think Stoney keeps her around?”

“I was hoping he had a soft spot for strays.”

“Hah. He’s not called Stoney for nothin’.”

I linger a moment longer. I like the kitchen, Viv’s companionship. It’s warm and cozy. Easy.

Then again, easy has never suited me.

A parting smile for Viv, then I determinedly head up the stairs. Home sweet home. I feel the booze beast stirring restlessly in my belly, triggered by my anxiety. Not tonight, I tell it. Tonight I’m strong enough. Tomorrow I will find a meeting.

I unlock the door to my new room, close and latch it behind me. Quick check under the bed. No sign of the cat. I take a moment to unpack my few belongings, set up my toothbrush, toothpaste. A ritual performed so many times, it leaves me both comforted and exhausted.

New town, new job, new case.

“Why are you doing this?” Paul demanded. “Why can’t I be enough for you?”

Me, standing there, unable to answer.

“You’re an addict.” He answered his own question bitterly. “That’s why. There will always be something you need more, some high you have to chase. Jesus, Frankie. I love you.”