Before She Disappeared(23)

I think I understand. Together but separate. I know that feeling well.

Across the street, the bell tones at a more insistent volume. The girls edge toward the street. Their classmates are already departing, exhorting fierce gravitational pull. I speak faster.

“She changed her clothes that Friday after school. Do you know why?”

Both girls shake their heads, take a couple more steps. I quickly follow.

“Did you see her after she changed? Maybe she’d put on a dress, date clothes?”

More negative head shakes. More shifting sideways.

“Okay, okay, one last question, side door of the school. The one you guys use for smuggling in contraband, how do you prop it open? Is there a rock, stick, pencil for jamming the lock?”

Both girls startle, stare at me.

“You need to go, I need answers. Quick.”

My insistent tone, combined with the demanding bell, does the trick.

“Can’t prop it open,” Marjolie murmurs rapidly, voice low. “The janitor checks. Kids bring a friend or two. Couple of kids do the spotting, while the third runs out and grabs . . . whatever.”

“So when Angelique went back into the school Friday afternoon, which of you held the door?”

Kyra and Marjolie draw up short, faces paling.

“What?” Marjolie asks first.

“The police know she reentered the school using the side door in order to change her clothes. Then she hid her backpack. The police already know that. You’re not ratting her out. Please. Eleven months is long enough. It’s time to put it all on the line.”

“The police never mentioned—” Kyra, already sounding angry.

“The police don’t disclose information. But I can. Help me, and I’ll keep you informed.” I’m begging, pleading. One last shrill alarm from inside the school, followed by cars honking on the street, where we’re now holding up traffic.

I want to grab Marjolie’s arm but will myself not to. They know something. Not about the side door, which has appeared to catch them completely off guard. But about the new Angelique who returned from summer vacay. I need to know that something. Detective Lotham has his surveillance videos. I have this.

“It wasn’t us,” Marjolie says suddenly. “We didn’t do it. We didn’t even know she went back inside. When the police said they found her backpack on the school grounds, we wondered.” She flickers a glance a Kyra. “But we honestly had no idea.”

“We’re her friends,” Kyra mutters stiffly. “Her best friends.”

“Then I have to ask again—who are her enemies?” More honking, while the last of the bell fades away.

“The police are wrong,” Kyra declares flatly. “Angel wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t keep secrets, she wouldn’t backstab her friends, and she sure as hell—” Whatever the girl is about to say, she bites it off. One last glare at me, then she grabs Marjolie’s hand and they both bolt for the academy steps.

I’m alone in the middle of the street with plenty of cars willing to tell me about it. I take the first step back toward the sidewalk, still thinking.

They’re lying. Angel’s friends, her brother—they all know more than they’re saying. And yet they also seem genuinely concerned and want her back. Meaning?

I make a quick stop in the corner market to grab water and dash a bunch of notes in my spiral notebook. Then I realize I need to do some hustling of my own in order to get to work on time.

I exit the grocer and round the corner to what I hope is the correct bus stop, casting a glance over my shoulder out of sheer habit.

Which is when I see him. A tall, skinny Black male standing across the way, staring straight at me. At least six foot four. Anywhere from late twenties to late thirties. Wearing a blue nylon tracksuit, with a thick gold chain around his neck, like he last got dressed in the early 2000s.

Cars zoom between us. When they’ve passed, he’s gone. But the shiver of unease follows me back to the bar.





CHAPTER 8




Returning to Stoney’s dim interior feels like a balm after spending half the day out in the big city. I draw in a lungful of grease, salt, and hops, as I tie a white apron around my waist and prepare for battle. I know this bar’s fragrance as well as I know the feel of the beer taps and a sound of a bell: Order up! I like Stoney’s. Not just because it’s a no-frills joint where you get what you get but because it’s the local watering hole.

I’ve worked in dozens of bars across dozens of cities. I could make much more in some upmarket, aspirational place. But I remain partial to the kind of pub that feels like home.

When I check in, I find Stoney tucked inside a tiny office next to the kitchen. He looks me up and down, maybe checking for Piper damage. “Got three menu items,” he says, ticking off on his fingers: “Cheeseburger and fries ten dollars, chicken wings and fries ten dollars. Only fries, five dollars.”

He turns back to his archaic desktop. At least that explains the lack of menu.

I linger for a second, in case he wants to walk me through setup, maybe review some custom drinks. Nope, nothing. Apparently three minutes of instruction is all it takes to run this joint. Fair enough.

I unstack the chairs from the tables. Wipe every available surface. Napkin holders, check. Salt and pepper shakers. Cheap promotional coasters.