But when the cop—Kaplan was his name; the RA was Trenton, Tim Trenton—said they had the boyfriend and he turned to go interview him, she asked Kaplan how far it was, if she should walk or drive in the car.
“Neither,” he said. “We don’t interview witnesses with other people around.”
“Other people? I’m her mother,” she said firmly.
“All the more reason,” he said.
“And wouldn’t you say he’s a suspect, not a witness?”
“And see, this is exactly why we don’t. There’s procedure to follow, as I’m sure you’re aware more than anyone. So I advise you to go home, get some rest, and we’ll call you if—”
“Go home?” she said incredulously. “I’m not going home when my daughter has been…been…kidnapped, or taken, or—”
“There’s nothing that indicates that, ma’am. There’s no need to panic.”
“Are you kidding me? You need to collect fingerprints. You need to spray this room and hallway with luminol. You need—”
“Mrs. O’Farrell, please. You said so yourself—her things aren’t here. Her backpack is gone—”
“All students leave their rooms with their backpacks!”
“Ma’am, kidnappers don’t pack up people’s stuff when they take them, okay? Your daughter has almost certainly moved residence and neglected to tell you or follow the dorm procedures.”
“But her phone is here!”
“All due respect, that doesn’t mean anything. Another possibility is that she gave away her possessions. Was she exhibiting any signs of being depressed, any family history or anyth—”
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “If Frank were alive, he’d have your head.”
Kaplan shot Carla a look that spoke volumes.
“I’m staying right here,” Maggie said. “Until her roommates come back.”
“You can’t do that,” the RA said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We can’t just randomly let people hang out in a shared suite. It’s not fair to the roommates. They have stuff here, valuables.”
“What about my daughter? She’s not valuable?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t even know who is living in this room! Maybe I should tell the dean of students what a great job you’re doing keeping track of the kids in the dorm!”
He sighed. “Have you ever tried to control hundreds of eighteen-year-olds?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I have. I hosted post-prom,” she said hotly.
“You can wait in the common room by the elevators for a couple hours.”
“I can’t believe this,” Maggie said.
“Just drive her back, if you wouldn’t mind,” Kaplan said to Carla.
“I’m not going anywhere!”
“I’ll stay,” Carla said.
“Let me know if you get eyes on the roommate. And in the meantime, Mrs. O’Farrell, try to relax? Because I bet you five dollars I’m going to find her over at the boyfriend’s apartment, with a backpack full of…stuff.”
Maggie took a deep, audible breath. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
Maggie rubbed her eyes. She’d seen cops interviewed on television, shedding tears over missing kids who were the same age as their own children, claiming the cases had gotten to them. But those cops were rare. Even when her husband had been shot in the line of duty, even when one of their own went down, it had been nearly impossible for her to get information. The detectives solved it quickly enough—leaned on every young drug dealer in the neighborhood till they found one who’d talk—but they hadn’t told her what they were doing at any juncture along the way.
In the common room, she scanned the dozens of posters affixed to the refrigerator, wondering if Emma had been drawn to one. A play that night? A concert? She didn’t see anything. There were, however, greasy cookie sheets stacked in the sink. So much for no one eating cookies.
Suddenly, she turned to Carla. “The phone,” she said.
“I’m sure Kaplan will get it and pull the records if he needs to. And her bank account, too. Usually takes a while, though. Might not know anything for weeks.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not what I’m saying. I pay that bill. I own that phone.”
“Okay,” the officer said slowly.
“And I want it back. Now.”
Eight
Emma
Emma left Jason’s office and decided she’d been doing it wrong, all wrong. She needed inspiration, not observation. She bought digital subscriptions to the New York Times and the Washington Post, money she couldn’t afford, and spent every free hour not reading her assignments but reading the papers. Corruption, collusion, unions. Were the university cafeteria workers unhappy with their conditions? she wondered. Were the tenured professors overpaid, and the adjuncts ready to revolt?
On Monday nights, she allowed herself a break to watch The Bachelorette and let her brain turn to mush like the rest of the dorm. She had been sitting with Taylor, eating terrible gluten-free pretzels and rosé wine when Fiona came in.
Fiona glanced at the screen, then asked if they were hungry, dangling a brown bag from a restaurant Emma had never heard of. “Pad thai,” she said. “I only ate a few bites.”
Taylor said yum and jumped up, grabbed a fork and plate.
“Oh my God, look at all the shrimp.”
“I know,” Fiona said. “It’s an awesome place.”
Fiona refilled her water bottle from the Brita, then refilled the Brita from the sink, probably because there were witnesses. (Emma was constantly finding the Brita in the fridge with just a few drops in the bottom, just as she found the toilet paper roll with a single sheet clinging to it like a life vest.) Fiona was beautifully dressed, as she always was. A black crepe dress with sleeves that fluttered just right over her upper arms, a flippy skirt that showcased her long legs. Cherry-red high heels that were probably by some designer Emma didn’t know, and lipstick that seemed to match. Emma had never seen Fiona in loose sweatpants or a T-shirt. Even her workout clothes were stylish; she had little sweaters and wraps she only wore to and from the gym.
“I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Okay,” Emma said.
Fiona always showered at night, which was fine by Emma, since she liked to wake up with a shower and hated going to bed with wet hair. The thought of it soaking into the pillow made her queasy. But Fiona rarely washed her hair; she had it done at Dry Bar every Friday and tried to make the blowouts last as long as possible.
“This is delicious. Do you want a bite?” Taylor asked.
“No thanks,” Emma said, glancing at the huge mound of noodles on her plate. “I guess Fiona is one of those girls who doesn’t eat on dates.”
Taylor laughed a little. The first week of school, they’d both seen lithe Fiona drunk-eat a microwaved cinnamon bun in bed at 3:00 a.m. They’d all gone to Mabel’s Diner one morning after too much sauvignon blanc and watched her order oatmeal, then proceed to eat half of Annie’s cheesesteak and poached eggs, taking small, swift bites. They knew what she was capable of in private, if not in public.
“I don’t think her date wants her to be too full,” Taylor said with her mouth full.
“What do you mean? Is she seeing someone controlling?”
Taylor put down her fork. “Oh my God, you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Look, she’s your roommate, so I just assumed.”
“Assumed what?”
“That you knew. You knew her from before, right?”
“No.”
“Wait, what?”
“Nope. We went through the roommate lottery.”
“Oh, right. She didn’t want to risk any idiot from her Podunk town. But still. Don’t you talk?”
“Well, now you know why.”
Emma frowned. “I do?”
“Because she goes on daddy dates.”
“She eats out with her father?”
“No, you knucklehead, her sugar daddy.”
“What?”
“You heard me. She dates older men who pay her.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yup.”
“Pay her, like, money? How much?”
“A lot. Like, a lot a lot.”
“So…I mean, does she sleep with them?”
“Well, she has an endless supply of those disposable shower caps from four-star hotels, so you tell me. Maybe they’re just watching movies and getting room service. I shouldn’t judge.”
“Jesus! When did she tell you this?”
“I was complaining about money a while ago after going to New York and spending, like, five hundred dollars, and she suggested that I should stop working at the computer center and try something new and fun instead. I thought maybe she was talking about waitressing on roller skates or something, ha-ha. But she said she’d paid off her student loan and had next year’s tuition banked.”
“Really?”
“One of the guys gives her investment advice, too.”
“That’s totally insane. And here I thought she liked showering at night because it was relaxing.”
Taylor laughed. “So get this. Then she tells me that I’d be good at it. That I’m a natural.”
“Well, you are flexible. We’ve seen you twerk and do the floss at the same time.”
“Ha-ha, no, she said it’s basically acting. Act like you’re interested. Act like you like them. Act like you’re grateful when they pay you money out of their children’s inheritance.”
Taylor paused to eat more of the pad thai and offered Emma another bite. Emma shook her head. She was having trouble processing all this already without the multitasking of chewing. She wasn’t sure if eating Fiona’s sugar daddy’s food would make it easier or harder to understand.
“Damn,” she said. “I knew a girl in high school whose cousin did webcam stuff for money, but that’s tame. That’s like modeling, and this is like—”
“Prostitution?”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I just figured you knew.”
“Fiona’s not a big talker.”
“She’s probably all talked out, pretending to care about these dudes.”
“So there’s, what, a call service? Or a…pimp or madam or something?”
“There’s apps. And I think there are clubs, too.”
“Clubs? Like a physical space?”
“I think so.”
“Well, this explains why she goes to mass twice a week, not just once.”
Taylor laughed with her mouth full. “You’re funny, Emma.”
“No, I’m just Catholic. We have this terrible habit of telling the truth.”
“Well, don’t say anything. Let her tell you first.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe you can find a subtle way of bringing it up.”
“So wiping down every surface in our room with Clorox wipes, is that not subtle enough?”
“Again, funny.”
Much as she appreciated the compliment and camaraderie with Taylor, who was the most interesting of all the roommates, Emma couldn’t recall ever feeling younger or more naive or more suburban. Taylor had been so matter-of-fact about it all.
She picked up the bag from the pad thai place. It had a red logo printed on the front, a bit smudged with oil but still readable. Paco’s Thai Palace. Underneath, in loopy script, Thai me up, Paco!
A website was listed, but no address or phone. She’d never seen it, never heard of it. It must be far off campus, in another corner of Philadelphia. Maybe it was near one of the so-called clubs, or maybe it was the club? Emma had a hard time picturing a fun, pun-loving Thai restaurant as a bordello, but it certainly painted a colorful picture in her mind. Red lanterns, umbrellas in bright drinks, desserts lit on fire with tiki torches, all served to women in short dresses clapping their hands in delight while men stroked their legs beneath the table. Yes, it evoked a lively picture all right.
A picture that might accompany a very, very interesting story about college students and student loans. A story so close to home, it was lying in the extra-long twin bed right next to her, wrapped in soft pale-blue T-shirt sheets, hair coiled in a silk scrunchie, wearing a pink Korean face mask, scrolling through designer handbags on Rue La La, yawning.
Nine
Maggie
They were lucky: the door to the suite was still open. Maggie didn’t know if it was ineptitude on the security guard’s part or if one of the other girls was home and just being very, very quiet, but she didn’t care. Down the hall, she’d noticed other girls streaming in and out of another door freely, no keys. Not everyone locked their doors. Why? Why had it been locked before and not now? That question would have to wait.
She was just glad that they didn’t have to get anyone else involved to get inside. They’d listened at the door before entering—two heads up against the wall—to the singular sound of an empty apartment. The hum of a refrigerator, the drip of a bathroom sink, the creaking of someone walking on the floor above. The sound of nothing, really, but the kind of sounds that had kept Maggie up for years. The sounds you could never get rid of, no matter where you lived or how well you insulated yourself or how much red wine you allowed yourself. (Two glasses, no more, except on holidays. Except when your daughter went to college and you missed her. Except when it was a Saturday.) Her sister said she’d sleep better if she stopped watching true crime shows at night, but Maggie thought they calmed her. It took her a few months to realize they made her feel closer to Frank, like the old days when he used to tell her everything about every case he worked.
Inside, it was clear from the row of open doors that no one was home yet. But those doors had all been closed earlier. The girls come and gone, clearly, perhaps waiting in another room. How had they missed them? Another party in their hallway? Or had they crept up the stairs at the end of the hall to avoid Maggie seeing them in the common room? Maggie imagined some kind of alert on an app, like Waze—Cop ahead. Parent on the side of the road. Seek alternate route.
Maggie thought back to move-in day, when she’d asked Taylor (who seemed the friendliest, the most reasonable of all the girls, not stiff and formal like Fiona, not ditzy like Annie) if she could have their phone numbers, in case of emergency. Emma had intervened, a look of horror on her face. “Mom,” she’d cautioned. A stop sign, a red light, in one word.
“It’s okay,” Taylor had answered, and Emma had said No, no, it wasn’t and stopped the transaction. Emma had turned to Taylor and said, “only child,” and Maggie had wanted to add, “only parent.” But embarrassing her daughter had not been part of the plan. She’d wanted her to be happy, to fit in. Not be the weird girl with the overprotective mother and dead father. And now, part of her regretted that decision, but she also knew that none of those girls would answer her call anyway. But would they answer Emma? She wasn’t sure.
In Emma and Fiona’s room, she heard a sudden peal of laughter from three floors below, on the sidewalk, and when Maggie glanced instinctively toward the window, she noticed it was open an inch.
“This wasn’t open before,” Maggie said.
“Huh. I think you’re right.”
“I know I am.” Maggie was, first and foremost, a mother. She’d come late to the role of wage earner and left early the role of wife—for even she would admit, long before her husband had died, she’d stopped being a wife, just dropped it off her resume, allowing it to fall from the to-do list forever. Mother was what she was and what she’d been good at. She could live for
ever on four hours’ sleep, hush a crying baby with a few swings of her arms, whip up cupcakes on short notice from just a few things in her pantry. She was smart enough to edit a term paper, calm enough to teach parallel parking, and she’d always known when she came home from a night out if someone had thrown a party in her absence. She’d notice the smallest thing wrong—the fireplace poker turned sideways, the bottle opener tossed into the wrong drawer, all the Crystal Light packets used up—and just know. Compared to those things, an open window was a big thing. A big thing a mother would notice.
She went to the window, looked down. She stood there watching the kids on the sidewalk, two boys and a girl, which was always trouble. The worst combination imaginable. If there was a third boy, there would be a chance of overruling each other. If there was a second girl, there would be a chance of getting away. Maggie stared at them as if she could will their motives to be pure. They laughed hysterically at something and swayed in that way that said drinking but not drunk. She didn’t recognize them; it was clear they were just out for a walk, just passing by, just stopping because one of them said something so funny, the other two almost wet their pants. They weren’t important, but suddenly, everything was important. The window was open, the sky was inky, people were laughing outside, and her daughter was missing. How did all these things fit together? Suddenly, there would always be an addendum, a phrase at the end of every thought, action, and piece of news. Da dum da dum da dum and my daughter is missing.
Where She Went Page 4