Before She Disappeared(7)

Fifth home down the block, with bay windows and a sturdier-looking front porch. This is it. I double check the house number to be sure, then note the light glowing from the second-floor apartment that is listed as belonging to Angelique Badeau’s aunt.

This is the moment it becomes real. Where I go from being well-intentioned to being fully committed. I don’t know what will happen next. A tentative welcome, a harsh refusal. A wailing torrent of desperate grief, or steely-eyed suspicion. I’ve experienced it all, and it never gets any less nerve-racking.

From here on out, my job is to listen, accept, adapt.

And hope, really, truly hope, they don’t hate me too much.

Lani Whitehorse’s grandmother hugged me in the end, though the tribal council pointedly gave me their backs.

I remind myself I’m good at what I do.

I swear to myself that I will make a difference.

I think, uneasily, that like any addict, lying is what I do best.

I head up the front steps.



* * *



—

On the front porch, I encounter six buzzers, meaning the triple-decker hasn’t been carved up only by level, but within each floor as well. Beneath the buzzers is a line of black-painted mailboxes, each one locked tight. It’s a simple but efficient system for the apartment dwellers. I try the front door just in case but am not surprised to find it bolted tight. Next, I press the first few ringers, prepared to announce myself as delivery and see if I can get lucky, but no one answers.

Which leaves me with the direct approach. I hit 2B. After a moment, a male voice, younger, higher, answers. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Guerline Violette.”

“She know you?”

“I’m here regarding Angelique.”

Pause. Angelique has a younger brother, Emmanuel, also a teen. I would guess this is him, particularly as his tone is already defensive with an edge of sullen. He sounds like someone whose been subjected to too many experts and well-wishers and been disappointed by all of them.

“You a reporter?” he demands now.

“No.”

“Cop?”

“No.”

“My aunt’s busy.”

“I’m here to help.”

“We heard that before.” I can practically feel the eye roll across the intercom. Definitely a teen.

“My time is free and I’m experienced.”

“Whatdya mean?”

“If I can talk to Guerline, I’d be happy to explain in person.”

Another pause. Then a female voice takes over the intercom.

“Who are you and why are you bothering us?” Guerline’s voice ripples with hints of sea and sand. Her niece and nephew immigrated to Boston as young children a decade ago, along with tens of thousands of other Haitians after Port-au-Prince was nearly flattened by an earthquake. Emmanuel has grown up in Boston and sounds it. But his aunt has retained the music of her native island.

“My name is Frankie Elkin. I’m an expert in missing persons. I’ve been following your niece’s disappearance and I believe I can help.”

“You are a reporter, yes?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t work for any news agencies or reporting outlets. My only interest is finding Angelique and bringing her home.”

“Why?”

The question is not defensive, but quiet. It tears at me, the amount of weariness in that single word.

I wish I had an answer for her. Something simple like Because, or poignant, such as Every child deserves to be found, or defiant, like Why not? But the truth is, she’s probably heard it all by now. A whole torrent of words and reasons. Instead of being given the one thing she wants most: answers.

The silence grows. I should attempt some line of argument, but nothing persuasive comes to mind. Then, a noise from inside the building. Stairs creaking as a light weight rapidly descends. Another occupant or . . .

The click of the bolt lock snapping back. The front door cracks open and I find myself face to face with a Haitian teenager. Tall, gangly, close-cropped dark hair and deep brown eyes a perfect match with his sister’s. He takes a second to look me over through the slit of the open door, features as wary now as his voice had been earlier.

He turns, already dropping hold of the door. It’s up to me to grab the edge, push through, and follow him up ancient wooden stairs to the second floor.



* * *



—

Guerline Violette stands in the middle of a cramped living room, her arms crossed over her formidable figure. I peg her age somewhere between forty and fifty, but her smooth, dark skin and classic features make it hard to determine. She’s clad in purple scrubs seamed with orange trim and has bright green Crocs on her feet. She’s a daunting woman, especially with her hair pulled into a thick bun on top of her head, calling attention to her high cheekbones and handsome brow. But upon closer inspection I spy the purple smudges of long nights and fearful days that bruise her eyes. She watches my approach with a mix of suspicion and dread. I can’t say that I blame her.

Emmanuel closes the door behind me, then comes over to stand awkwardly by his aunt. At thirteen, he’s already my height, with the slender build of a kid who’s recently undergone a growth spurt. In contrast to his aunt’s colorful ensemble, Emmanuel is wearing the official uniform of teen males everywhere—sneaks, jeans, and a worn T-shirt. He looks young, clean-cut, and determined. The man in the family, even if it scares him. These are the kind of cases that break my heart.