Before She Disappeared(8)

Belatedly I stick out my hand. Guerline clasps it briefly, more out of politeness than welcome. The one-bedroom apartment houses three people and looks it. Guerline gestures to the cramped family room that clearly serves as a common room, bedroom, and dining room all rolled into one. What the room lacks in space it makes up for in color. Yellow walls, an overstuffed red velvet chair, a sofa piled with bright-patterned sleeping quilts, all bleeding into turquoise kitchen cabinets to the right.

I go with the red chair, positioned in front of the window. On the wall beside me is a high wooden shelf bearing photos of gold-framed saints, some religious icons, and a single dangling rosary. Below it, running along first the tall bureau, then the long cabinet holding the TV, is a riot of green houseplants, adding to the room’s ambience. Between a pocket of green leaves, I spy a discreet cluster of white candles, arranged in a semicircle with a bowl of water and fresh-cut flowers before them. Angelique’s framed photo, the same shyly smiling picture used in the missing persons flyers, is positioned next to candles.

Guerline catches me eyeing the makeshift altar, and I quickly look away. According to what I’ve read, many Haitians practice a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, but it’s not something I know much about.

I turn my attention to the other knickknacks littering the room. A clear baby food jar filled with sand—a touch of Guerline’s island home? Then I spot the requisite school photo of Emmanuel, his teeth a flash of white. Next to it a smaller picture of an adult female, the colors faded, the background hard to make out. The woman’s smile is familiar, however. If I had to guess—Emmanuel and Angelique’s mother, who still lives in Haiti. Finally, I spot a photo of a graying couple, framed by palm trees. Guerline and her sister’s parents, maybe taken outside their home before the earthquake destroyed it.

“You say you can help, yes?” Guerline states, moving to the sofa, her hand resting on the pile of quilts. Emmanuel follows closely behind. He is obviously protective of his aunt. I wonder if he was protective of his older sister, too, or if it was her disappearance that made him realize the need to guard his loved ones.

“My name is Frankie Elkin,” I repeat for both of them. “I travel all around the country, handling cases just like your niece’s.”

Guerline frowns, trying to absorb what I said.

“You are a private investigator?” she asks at last in her French-lilted English.

“I am not a licensed PI. I’m a volunteer.” I’m never sure how to explain this part. “There are actually quite a few people like me, laypersons who are dedicated to assisting in missing persons investigations. From search dog handlers to pilots to boots on the ground. There are organizations, missing persons boards where we follow cases like your niece’s.”

Guerline is frowning. “My Angelique . . . She is on some message board?”

“On the internet, matant,” Emmanuel murmurs at her shoulder. “She’s talking about reading details on the internet.”

I nod. “According to reports, Angelique left school Friday, November fifth. At three fifteen p.m. No one has seen her since.”

“The police looked and looked,” Guerline assures me, her fingers twisting absently. “Ricardo, our community officer. He promised me they would bring my Angel home. But now, it has been many months since there has been any news.”

“They found her backpack.”

“Yes. Under a bush on school grounds.”

“The backpack contained her cell phone, her school books, and the outfit she’d worn to school that day?”

Guerline nods. I glance at Emmanuel, wondering if he knew his sister had packed a change of clothes, that she must have been planning something that Friday afternoon. But his face remains perfectly expressionless.

“No sign of violence?” I prod, because not all details are made public.

Guerline shakes her head. “Nothing . . . They found nothing. Even on her phone . . . Ricardo tells me they can read the texts, see the phone calls. But there is nothing saying where she was going, what she might be doing. Her friends, they swear they don’t know anything. LiLi went to school. Then she was to come home, start dinner. Except . . .”

Guerline looks as lost now as she must have felt eleven months ago. Her hands tremble. She clasps them tight, a model of grace, even in her grief.

“Did Angelique have close friends?” I push.

“Kyra and Marjolie. Good girls, too.” But I catch an edge of hesitancy in the last statement, which intrigues me.

“Boyfriends?”

“LiLi keeps to herself. No boys, parties, those sorts of worries. She is a very good girl. A caring sister, a loving niece.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Violette. Had she been having issues with anyone lately? Another classmate, teacher, coach?”

Guerline shakes her head. Emmanuel fixes his gaze on the floor with studied avoidance.

More questions for me to ask later.

“Girl drama?” I try one last time. “You know how it can be with teenagers. Bestie today, archenemy tomorrow.”

“Not my Angelique. She has a good head on her shoulders, that one. She wants college. A future. You understand.”

Guerline gazes at me directly and I get it. Angelique didn’t want to return to Haiti. She wanted to get into college and hopefully be granted a student visa so she could remain in this country with all its opportunities.