Before She Disappeared(13)

Me, still standing there, unable to answer.

Paul turning away. Paul walking away.

Me, not following.

Now, I change into the boxer shorts and worn T-shirt I wear for bed. I snap off the lights, then crawl beneath the sheets, which feel scratchy and unfamiliar against my skin.

The beast stirring again.

“Shhh,” I whisper. To my racing mind, to my dangerous thirst. “Shhh . . .”

Then I close my eyes and will myself to sleep.

Later, I wake up with tears on my cheeks.

Later still, I rise to consciousness enough to register a rumbling weight on my chest and glowing green eyes staring down at me. “Shhh,” I mumble again, then tumble back into the tumult of my dreams.





CHAPTER 5




When I wake up the next morning there’s no sign of Piper anywhere on the bed. I yawn, stretch, note the time. Nine a.m. Late by some standards, but not for someone who often works till three in the morning. I crawl across my mattress far enough to part the heavy black curtains and peer out the window. The crack of light is so bright I nearly recoil. Clearly a beautiful fall day. It should cheer me up. Instead, I feel slightly hungover, the aftereffects of lousy sleep and bad dreams. Not the first time, won’t be the last.

I step off the bed. A white-tipped paw lashes out from beneath the mattress and rakes open claws across the heel of my bare foot. I howl, hop, bang into the edge of the kitchen counter, swear a blue streak. At least I now know where my roommate is.

I move to the end of the bed, where I gingerly lift up the edge of the blankets and peer beneath. Green eyes regard me balefully. Piper sits just under the mattress, in the perfect position to strike.

“Really?” I ask her.

She yawns, flashing sharp white teeth. Then she innocently sets about grooming herself.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be.” Yesterday I hadn’t been able to make out her coloring. Now I can tell she is mostly gray, with mottled splashes of orange, and a white chest and paws. She’s not huge, but clearly dangerous enough. Time to start sleeping in socks, I decide, then hobble to the kitchen sink, where I bang out water, dampen a paper towel, and blot at my bleeding heel. The scratches aren’t deep. More of a shot across the bow.

“You’re not scaring me off that easily,” I inform the shape under the bed.

I head to the ancient shower. Ten minutes later, shivering slightly from a spray that was more lukewarm than hot, I scrape my long hair back into a ponytail, fasten my fancy multi-tool clips to each side, then dab on facial moisturizer. The face looking back at me from the mirror isn’t young or fresh or pretty. I have lean features, plain brown eyes, a dusting of freckles across my nose. Twenty years ago, my complexion may have glowed, but too many years of boozing have taken their toll. Even with moisturizer I have fine lines creasing my eyes, my brow, the corners of my mouth.

I look tired, I think, that kind of weariness where no amount of rest will ever make a difference. I finger my chin, feeling the prickle of random hairs that hadn’t been there ten years ago, the soft pouch of skin sagging beneath my jawline. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Some sign of the girl I used to be, or some proof of the woman I am now?

I wish sometimes I could see myself the way Paul did, all those years ago.

By the end, he wished the same.

I pull away from the mirror, exit the curtained-off bathroom.

After all this time on the road, I’ve developed a uniform. Two pairs of worn jeans, one pair of cargo pants, and one pair of black yoga pants. I have three short-sleeved tops and three long-sleeved, all interchangeable. My olive-green canvas jacket is medium weight—it lacks the lining needed for winter wear but should get me through the next month. It’s easy enough to add a scarf or gloves if I need them. For shoes, I have one pair of sneakers and one pair of sturdy brown boots. Seven pairs of underwear, definitely on the dingy side. Seven pairs of socks, each a bit more worn than the last. I should stay here long enough to build the cash reserve necessary to refresh my wardrobe. But most of that depends on Angelique Badeau.

So far, I’m understanding why the media reports on her disappearance were thin and vague. There’s no narrative. Angelique was a good girl. She might have run away. She might have had her backpack stolen. She might have abandoned it herself after changing into fresh clothes.

Who was this girl? What happened to her in the middle of one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Boston?

And nearly a year later, how can she remain vanished without a trace?

I finish lacing my tennis shoes, then fill a bowl with water and place it on the floor. Stoney had said the cat needed nothing, but that feels weird to me.

I grab my key, slide my Tracfone as well as my photo ID and a modest amount of cash into my coat’s inner pockets. Then I head out in search of breakfast.



* * *



—

I locate the nearest coffee shop, which turns out to be a vivid pink-and-orange Dunkin’ Donuts. I haven’t been to one in forever, but I remember the coffee as being excellent, the donuts okay. One large-coffee-loaded-with-cream-and-sugar later, I take a seat next to the window overlooking Morton Avenue and start planning out my day.

While I’d asked Guerline Violette to pass along my contact info to her friendly neighborhood cop, Ricardo, I don’t feel like waiting for the phone to ring. Instead I call the B-3 Boston PD field office and request to speak with Officer Ricardo, community liaison. There’s a pause.