Chapter 4
The address on the back of the card wasn't far. I knew that before he said it out loud.
He turned the card over in his palm and his thumb stopped on the ink. Elena Reyes. 3B, Pine View, Route 31. It was two blocks off the highway, past the gas station where Mom used to buy me milk after school. I hadn't told him I knew where it was. I just started walking, and after a second his dress shoes came up behind me on the sidewalk.
"You sure you want me to come with you?" he said. His voice was lower now, not the cafe voice.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. If I said yes, it meant I needed him. If I said no, he'd leave.
Pine View wasn't really a view. It was a two-story building with peeling beige paint and a parking lot full of potholes. The highway hummed behind it, loud enough to shake the railings. We took the outside stairs to the second floor. I counted the doors without meaning to. 3A, then 3B.
The door to 3B was ajar. Just an inch. Light from inside cut across the concrete walkway.
I stopped. My chest got tight. Mom never left it open. Not even in summer.
He put a hand out, not touching me, just hovering near my shoulder. "Wait," he said.
He nudged it with his knuckle instead of his palm. The door swung inward slow. No scrape. No splinter on the frame. I looked at the edge where the lock met the wood and there was nothing wrong with it. No marks, no crack. Someone hadn't broken in. Someone had used a key.
"Mom?" I called. My voice sounded small against the highway noise.
No one answered.
The apartment smelled like it always did, cleaning spray and coffee, but it was too still. Her bag was on the kitchen chair, the strap hanging down like she'd just set it there. A stack of mail sat on the counter, unopened. The coupons and the light bill with the pink late notice still on top. On the fridge, my drawing from last month was still taped up, the one of the dinosaur in space. Nothing looked taken. It looked like she'd meant to come right back.
Her phone was on the kitchen counter, plugged in and charging. The screen was dark but the little red light blinked.
I walked to it. My hands were shaking. He stayed by the door, his breathing loud.
"Don't touch anything yet," he said quietly. "Just look."
But I already knew. Mom never went anywhere without her phone. She'd pat her pocket for it three times before we left the apartment. She'd left it charging, right where she always left it at night.
He came closer and looked over my shoulder at the counter. He didn't pick it up either. He just stared at the bag, the mail, the phone in its place.
"When did you last see her?" he asked.
"Last night," I whispered. "She tucked me in. She said she had to work early."
The bathroom door was open a crack. I pushed it with my fingertip. Her towel was hanging over the shower rod, damp. Not wet, but still heavy and cool when I brushed it. It hadn't dried. I pressed my palm against it and felt the cold seep in.
I looked back at him. "She showered last night," I said. "She always showers at night. This is still damp. She was here last night."
He nodded once, slow. He understood what I meant. She hadn't left days ago. She'd vanished after she'd showered, after she'd plugged her phone in, after she'd set her bag down. Sometime between then and morning.
I went back to the counter and tapped the phone's screen. It lit up. Mom's picture was still the background, me missing my front tooth. There was a missed call at 11:47 p.m. Unknown number. No voicemail. Under it, another one at 6:12 a.m., same unknown number. She hadn't answered either.
"She missed calls," I said. I held it out so he could see without touching it.
He leaned in, his gray beard catching the kitchen light. He read the screen and his mouth pressed into a line. "Don't call it back," he said. "Not yet."
On the fridge, next to my dinosaur, there was a bare spot where tape had been. A little rectangle cleaner than the rest. Something had been there and now it wasn't. I stared at it. Mom always left me a note on that spot when she worked early — Be good, cereal in fridge, love you — written on the back of a receipt or a scrap.
There was no note now.
"There was a note," I said. "She always leaves a note."
He followed my eyes to the empty spot on the fridge. He didn't ask what it said. He just looked at the missing square and then at the charging phone and the bag no one would leave behind.
The apartment was quiet except for the highway and the fridge humming. It wasn't empty like someone moved out. It was empty like someone had been taken out in the middle of living.
I didn't find her in the bedroom. Her bed was made, but the blanket was pulled crooked, like she'd sat on the edge and then stood up fast. Her work shoes were by the door, not on her feet.
I turned back to him. He was still holding the worn card from the cafe, folded and creased in his hand, and now it made sense why that address was written on it. It wasn't just where she lived. It was where she'd been last.
May you like
"She was here last night," I said again, because I needed him to say it too.
He finally spoke, his voice barely above the highway hum. "She was."
