“The door might be open.”
He blinked. “Should I ask you how you know that?”
“Some of them leave their doors open. That’s all I’m saying.”
The door was still open, but Kaplan knocked, loudly, waiting for an answer, getting none, before going inside. He announced their arrival, turned on his flashlight, but there was no point. No one was home.
“Too early,” she said.
“I guess so,” he agreed.
He pulled out a business card and taped it to the refrigerator.
They stood in the hallway, and he said he’d follow up the next day.
“It is the next day,” she said. Well past midnight.
“You know what I mean. Time to call it,” he said, and the words stung. The words of a surgeon when the patient couldn’t be revived.
“There’s more to do,” she said.
“Maybe. And if there is, I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You have to collect evidence, get fingerprints. You—”
“We’ve been over this. There’s no crime scene. Her stuff is gone. The witnesses say she’s staying somewhere else. I know you don’t like it, but you have to accept it. I’ll file a report, though, and we’ll go fr—”
“Accept it?” She let out a low laugh. “I’m a mother. I don’t have to accept anything but what I feel in my gut. And my gut says my girl needs help.”
“Well, a gut isn’t evidence. We—”
“No, I want more than the report. I want fingerprints, crime tape—”
“I want you to sleep. And if there’s still no word from her, after she gets wind of how hard we’re looking for her? Then we’ll talk.”
That he was sounding reasonable and negotiable and almost made sense was the first sign that she knew he was right—she was tired, and she did need sleep.
He pushed the elevator button.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “You go ahead.”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a ladies’ room around the corner.”
“I know.”
“But you can’t stay here. You know that, right?”
“I know that, too.”
He left, and she pretended to go to the bathroom in the hallway, then headed straight back to the suite. Kaplan didn’t know as much as he thought he knew. She didn’t really want to stay there. Didn’t want to smell the mix of vomit and hair spray in the hallway. Didn’t want to confront a bunch of drunk girls with smeared makeup and slurred words and hope they’d tell her what they wouldn’t tell him. No, that was not her idea of a fun evening. And she knew it was probably fruitless. But so, too, was going home. What would going home do but make her feel far away, that the clock was ticking, that she was wasting her time? She needed to be on campus, somewhere, and she needed to reach Sarah Franco. It was late, but she would call her mother’s house in Ardmore. She would wake them, scare them, but that was okay. It was all okay when your daughter was at risk.
She realized as she walked once again through the warren of rooms that she didn’t feel the presence of her daughter in any of them. No mug, no hair tie, nothing familiar. Not anymore. Was Kaplan right? Had her daughter simply moved and not told anybody?
It wasn’t the first time since his death that she missed her husband, missed having a spouse, a partner. But right now, she missed him as cop, not man. What would he glean from this? What would he see or know?
She went to their shared bathroom. In the mirror, she confronted her own worn face, mascara fallen onto her cheeks. She opened a drawer, looking for soap, and there it was. A tiny tub of Lush face wash, Emma’s favorite. She lathered the strawberry foam in her hands and slid it across her nose and cheeks. Strawberry, salt, mint. It could have been a drink. She splashed her face, letting it all go down the drain. Watching the pink bubbles pop in the bottom of the sink, she felt the enormity of the sob working up from her diaphragm. A train. An earthquake. A tornado. She gripped the edges of the vanity and let the tears come.
She dried her eyes on the edge of her shirt and walked toward the door. On the way, she had to pass her daughter’s room, the crumpled bed, the empty one. She blinked in the low light, stepped in. She was the one who argued it was a crime scene, but no one had listened. She wouldn’t touch anything, she told herself, wouldn’t turn on a light, open another drawer, wouldn’t leave fingerprints, wouldn’t obscure whatever evidence was still here.
She sat on the thin mattress and felt the featherbed liner beneath her give way. She lowered her head onto the lone remaining pillow. Emma had come to college with two. Her head sunk in deep. Memory foam. How ironic, Maggie thought. How she wished it was true. How she longed for something that retained her daughter’s thoughts and fears. But enough of that. Finally, all those thoughts slid away.
Maggie fell into a deep sleep, a practical sleep, the sleep of someone who was paying for this room, who was owed that much, so why the hell not.
Eighteen
Emma
Emma sat in Rittenhouse Square for only a few minutes before heading back. It was beautiful there: trees dotted with golden colors, a bronze fountain turning glazed green on the edges, restaurants still occupying sidewalks at lunch time, tempting the autumn fates. It would be colder soon, more cars, fewer bikes, fewer walkers. It would be harder to follow people. This thought struck her with great force, that winter would make it all much more difficult. Everyone would be bundled up, disguised, in vehicles. She stood up and headed back to campus, trying to think through her next move. She walked down Walnut again, on the other side of the street from the coffee shop. Ahead, another group of girls approached the same boutique and pressed the buzzer. Emma squinted, doubted what she saw, then half ran to get a better look. As they were ushered in, one of the girls’ heads turned, revealing yellow and gray ribbons in her hair. Samantha. Samantha from down the hall, a blond who often wore school spirit ribbons in her hair, a habit held over from cheerleading, she’d told them all in the get-to-know-you days of orientation, when everyone in their dorm shared their weirdest habit and their biggest fear. One of the boys had said his biggest fear was cheerleaders, and they’d all laughed, even Samantha.
She tried to see who the other girls were, if she recognized anyone, but it was too late. They were inside, and the doorman shot Emma a look as she passed. A look that said he was onto her.
Her head was reeling as she headed for the subway. This could not be a coincidence, or could it? Samantha was arguably the prettiest girl on their floor, golden haired and blue-eyed. She was from Wilkes-Barre, chubby by modern standards, curvier than most cheerleaders, and thought anyone who was on a diet was crazy. She had an old-fashioned quality to her and spoke her mind loudly and freely. Everyone knew her, and it was impossible for Emma to believe she was involved in this. She struck Emma as someone who would be vocal in opposition and who couldn’t keep a secret. No, she thought, she had to be wrong. The store probably had a Groupon promotion. Simple as that. Or, she thought with a chill down her spine, the store named simply B, enhanced by Pinterest-worthy graphics inside that encouraged you to “B yourself” and “B beautiful” could be owned by another B—Beck’s.
As she waited for the train, she confirmed that it was, in fact, owned by Sam Beck. Discounts, she thought. Discounts for the sugar babies. B a whore, she thought instantly, then felt guilty. She was being a little judgy, considering some of these girls had serious money problems. But she’d done some perfunctory psychological research and learned that some escorts didn’t need the money. They liked the money. They liked the attention.
She made a note about B and Beck’s and the shopping in one of her phone apps, all in code. She’d already deleted everything uncoded relating to the story. She flipped to her list for school and realized she had a paper due in two days, on religion and literature, and hadn’t done any of the reading, hadn’t cracked open her own Bi
ble, hadn’t even thought about God in relationship to words, so she thought about it while she waited, thought about the literature she had to read and more. Her mind kept wandering back to the story. Was there any God in the words she would write for this story? She felt it underneath, holding her up, rooting her to the earth sometimes, this belief that it was all part of a grand plan, that she was here for a reason. She felt something else bubbling up too, something surprising, that she wanted to tamp back down. Judgment. Commandments. Rules of this religious world her family had chosen being broken. She felt her own righteousness and was ashamed. There it was; God was there, driving her, too. But how was God driving Fiona? How had she managed to justify what she was doing, the words she spoke?
Back on campus, she headed straight for Lenape Library, vowing not to do any more work on the story until her paper was done. She’d crank it out, do the reading for her history class, and start fresh tomorrow. But her burner phone rang, interrupting her. Cara Stevens.
“Hey, I just wanted to ask you about your psychology teacher.”
“Mr. Grady?”
“Yeah, William Grady.”
“What about him?”
“He was on my restaurant list.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when I cross-checked the list of credit card customers at Spark’s with the list of teachers at your school, he was one of the names.”
“Which might mean nothing,” Emma said, thinking of Mr. Grady, who was about as ordinary and quiet a dude as she’d ever met. A small man who wore sweater vests and rubber-soled shoes, who didn’t even make much noise when he moved around the room, passing back their papers. All this time, when she’d pictured the men, she’d pictured powerful, forceful guys. Maybe even handsome, older, DILF-y men. The idea of having sex with puny Mr. Grady made her sick.
“Correct.”
“And might mean something.”
“Bingo. Just warning you to keep your eyes open.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“I also had made a note about a kid who used to work at the restaurant who was also a student. I think he’d be a senior now. Timothy something. Last name starts with a T.”
“Not—Timothy Trenton?”
“Could be. Depends on how many Timothy T’s there are in the senior class.”
“I can find that out.”
“Yeah, that should be easy. So you know one, huh?”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing slowly, a lump building in her throat.
“Any connection to your roommate?”
The thoughts flooded her. How she’d looked around the first day of school and thought, wow, how pretty everyone is at college. How at first she’d chalked it up to everyone being on their best grooming behavior. First day, best shoulder-skimming, leg-baring outfit, still summer-tan, still pale-blue pedicure, smoothest hair, careful makeup that said you weren’t trying too hard, you were just born this way. Girls who seemed to work out every day, starting in the morning in their leggings and crop tops, running or heading to the gym. How they’d all heard boys at parties calling her dorm, Hoden House, Hottie House.
“He’s my RA,” she said quietly.
Nineteen
Maggie
When she felt the hand on her shoulder, Maggie thought it was part of her dream, in which she was in a museum, employed as a docent, shepherding students through exhibits as they kept trying to touch and upend masterpieces. Then, gathering consciousness, she blinked her eyes, sloughing off slumber, trying to wake.
“Emma?” she said, heart pounding, turning in the low light.
“It’s Sarah,” a soft voice whispered.
She exhaled her disappointment and sat up on one elbow. The room, still empty. The hall, still quiet.
Sarah sat down at the foot of the bed, barely making an impression with her thin frame. The soft waves of her brunette hair, even uncombed, tousled from sleep, shone in the light. She was one of those girls who hadn’t peaked yet, who would seem prettier every year.
“You didn’t answer your phone. I figured you might be here.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, sitting all the way up and rubbing her neck, “but if the police had their way, I’d be home. Or in an insane asylum. I can’t believe I slept through your call.”
“Well, you were exhausted, I’m sure.”
“These girls,” Maggie sighed, “are avoiding me.”
“They’re avoiding the police, to be honest. I mean there’s probably three illegal things just lying around. And girls are paranoid. At least that’s what the RA said when I called him. Asshat.”
“You should have called me, Sarah. Not him, me.”
Sarah looked down, just as she had when she was in middle school and Maggie had admonished the girls for shrieking in the car or throwing food in the kitchen or one of a hundred small annoyances that didn’t matter anymore.
“Yeah, well, I was hoping for a logical explanation first. Like her roommate snored so she’d moved down the hall. Or she had the flu and went to the health center.”
“There’s a little too much logic floating around for my taste. Too much logic, not enough hunch.”
“Hunch equals paranoia, I guess.”
“So, Sarah, is there anywhere around here that serves pancakes?”
Sarah smiled. Maggie knew pancakes were Sarah’s favorite, knew because she’d always told Maggie she made them better than her own mother, knew it from years of requests, years of making sure there was buttermilk in the fridge, baking powder, real maple syrup. Was there anything a mom wouldn’t do to make a kid eat happily, even if she wasn’t her own?
“I know a place,” Sarah said. “Not as good as yours, though.”
“Well, of course not.”
It was nearly 6:00 a.m., and the dorm was still empty, as were the hallway and common room. No one home still. The floor felt tacky beneath Maggie’s shoes, as if she needed another reason to be uncomfortable in the wedges. As they waited for the elevator, Sarah looked down at her feet, and Maggie shook her head.
“Long story,” she said.
“When in Rome?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Something like that.”
Mabel’s Diner was on the south edge of campus, tucked underneath one of the school’s banners, lending it an official air. It proudly stated that it had been there for over fifty years, long before the campus sprang up around it, but it had clearly adapted for the students, serving breakfast all day, for one, and on the weekends, it was open twenty-four hours. And from the looks of it, it was staffed by waitresses who took no shit from drunk college kids but happily took their parents’ money and added gratuity to every check automatically. Smart.
The coffee was fresh and hot, and Maggie drank it gratefully. She ordered scrambled eggs and home fries; Sarah ordered a short stack and sausage and promised to give Maggie a bite of pancake. There were plenty of fancier things on the menu—s’mores waffles, pumpkin spice scones, and something truly Philadelphian, highlighted as the house special: scrapple pie.
“A meat pie made of scrapple?”
Sarah made a face. “Only boys are stupid enough to eat that.”
Maggie smiled. Anyone watching them—not that anyone was; the diner was empty—might think they were mother and daughter, with their long, dark hair, but if they looked closely, they’d see the awkward silences, the threads of guilt and anger that held them to the spot. Maggie had already admonished her for not calling her first, but Sarah seemed like something else was weighing on her. She took deep breaths between sips of her coffee, like she was gathering strength. It reminded Maggie of the night the girls had confessed they’d had a party when Maggie was out. Maggie had already known, of course, but she had wanted them to come clean, wanted them to suffer through that conversation, because that’s what growing up was all about. Difficult conversatio
ns. Now, she could see, they might be about to have another one.
“What is it, Sarah? What do you know?”
Sarah shook her head violently, as if she was trying to shake away a memory.
“Nothing specific,” she said. “Nothing at all, really.”
“What then?”
She shrugged her shoulders, sniffed away a tear. “I just…I know she wasn’t as happy at school as I was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my roommates are nicer than hers, more fun. More open. She was spending a lot of time alone in her dorm, and I wasn’t.”
“Well, that’s natural, that your experiences wouldn’t be identical.”
“That’s what my mom said, too.”
Maggie smiled. She didn’t know Sarah’s mother well, but she’d always liked her.
“I thought maybe it was the usual stuff, you know, borrowing clothes without asking, not doing dishes, or getting sexiled—”
“Sexiled?”
“When your roommate brings a guy home and locks you out?”
“Clever.”
“Yeah, it happens.”
The food arrived, and they each picked up a fork, paused, took bites. The eggs were creamy and the pancakes fluffy. Maggie took the offered bite, dipped it in more syrup, and nodded her approval. She was surprised by the force of her hunger. Some things didn’t change, didn’t stop, no matter what else was happening.
“But I…just feel as if I didn’t make enough time for her. Once, at a football game…” Her voice trailed off and cracked. “I feel like maybe she needed me, and I wasn’t there.”
Maggie reached across the table and took her hand. One of them had syrup on her fingers, and they stuck together a bit, which made both of them smile.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Maggie said. Another mother would blame the first girl who confessed to contributing to the problem, but Maggie knew, instinctively, that this was not the girl to blame.
“We can’t be sure.”
“Did you miss a call in the middle of the night? Forget to answer a text last week?”
Where She Went Page 10