by Kira Saito
The Girl
On
Prytania Street
KIRA SAITO
Copyright © 2018 by Kira Saito
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
“At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.”
Dante Alighieri, Inferno
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
One Year Later
Chapter One
Kate
“You messed up again,” said my editor as she furiously puffed on a cigarette and tapped her cherry red nails against her desk. Sylvia, despite her vices, was the picture of perfection with her bright red hair pulled back into an elegant bun and her smooth skin. Thanks to religious shots of Botox and avoiding the sun like a vampire, she appeared closer to thirty rather than fifty. “Nobody’s interested in this type of garbage.” She raised a micro-bladed eyebrow and threw my article in the trash can that rested by her side. “This is utter drivel that my great-grandmother would approve as kosher. We aren’t aiming for kosher.”
I swallowed hard forcing back the permanent residue of Oxycontin pills and bitter regret that lingered at the back of my throat. I ran my fingers through my ratty hair and hoped that she wouldn’t smell the fact that I hadn’t showered since Friday. It had taken me two months of hard work to write that article. “But vegan sausages that are secretly made out of cardboard paper and horsemeat are relevant.” I defended my latest investigation of the popular New York café that swore it was one hundred percent organic, cruelty-free and vegan. “I for one would like to know what I put in my stomach …” My defense sounded weak even though I had rehearsed it for approximately thirty minutes in the staff bathroom.
She let out a loud bored sigh. “Oh please, this is New York, people only pretend they care about that crap. People pretend to be holier than thou in public but what goes on behind closed doors is an entirely other story. You and I both know what this paper needs is to get to the bottom of a scandal. A scandal so deep, so utterly juicy that it will linger on the lips of even the most depraved socialite for years to come. This newspaper is dying, and unless you help pump some blood into it, I’ll have to hire someone younger who I’ll only have to pay half as much. These new Millennials are a dime a dozen … They don’t have high expectations for their lives. Give them a dollar and they’ll cater to your every whim.”
“No. Please. I need this job. It’s all I have.” She knew better than anyone that it was the only thing that prompted me to brush my teeth and drag my numb body out of bed. It wasn’t only because I needed the money, this job was the only semblance of sanity I had left in a world that was becoming increasingly insane.
Sylvia eyed me sharply as if reading my mind. “You look and smell like death,” she said examining me in the same manner my husband had just before he decided to leave me for an older woman, a famously wealthy businesswoman who had an appetite for young, handsome men who weren’t nearly as loaded as her.
I still stalked every single Instagram picture Richard posted religiously. Snapshots of him and her on a yacht off the coast of Santorini. Them lovingly holding their newly adopted baby girl, Sara, in front of a gothic castle in Romania. Her gently helping the young girl blow out candles on her first birthday cake at a fancy restaurant in Paris. I tortured myself by comparing her body to mine, the way she held his hand but what I paid attention to most was how she interacted with their little girl. The manner in which she protectively held her, watched her, and looked at her with utter adoration. She was the type of woman who would never do what I had done. She was much too smart for that. Much too watchful. I bet she had a team of nannies and security guards protecting her bundle of joy at all hours. She was everything I wasn’t. How could I blame Richard for leaving her for me? I would have left me for her as well.
Since that fateful day three years ago, his life had moved forward like a snowball gathering more strength, force, and size as it rolled over the competition. With her help, his restaurant had grown, blossomed, and he had made a name for himself in a town where that was increasingly hard to do. I wasn’t bitter over the fact that he had left me or even that he had gone on to be successful. What I was pissed about was how easily he had forgotten, pretended that it had never happened. How easily he was able to deny her existence. I, on the other hand, would never forget. She would haunt me until the last breath escaped my lips.
“Earth to Kate.” Sylvia furiously snapped her fingers pulling me out of my pity induced trance. Her icy blue eyes softened for a split second, and a barely visible frown line appeared at the right corner of her inflated lips. “Look, I know you’ve been dealt a shitty lot, but you have got to snap out of it. You’ve aged three decades in three years.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled for what seemed like the millionth time. Those were the only words that seemed to come out of my mouth. I knew my eyes had that glazed over look that was a telltale sign that the only person you were trying to deceive into believing you were all right was yourself. My eyes widened as I attempted to show my undivided interest.
“The time for excuses is over. It’s time for you to get your goddamn life back on track. We need a scoop, and I’ve got just the thing. Pack your bags because you’re headed to bayou country. Despite your recent issues, you’re one of the best reporters we’ve got. Plus, perhaps the mother of the victim will sympathize with you and will open up to you.”
I knew where this was headed. “The Dubois case, I can’t …” I struggled to find an acceptable excuse not to say yes. The case hit too close to home. Whatever story I would squeeze out of it would only open scars that were still so fresh. The faces of the absurdly wealthy Dubois family, who was Southern royalty, were plastered across the internet, newspapers, magazines, and television stations across the country. For the past month, the entire country had been gripped by the mysterious disappearance of the family’s only daughter, thirteen-year-old Charlene, whose angelic face with its bright blue eyes and shock of raven hair seemed to hold the imagination of every American citizen both rich and poor. There was a multitude of theories that tried to pinpoint what had happened to her. Some said that she was kidnapped, others that she committed suicide by drowning herself in the deep bayou, while others were certain that she was murdered by a jealous rival of the Dubois family. The evidence for each case was sketchy at best.
She reminded me of her.
Those lips, that hair, the perfect heart-shaped face. She was my ghost. I was hers. My heart pounded a mile a minute in my chest. The pain was raw, bare, and so deeply exquisite that it had become my biggest addiction. It was the vice that I secretly prayed would put me out of my misery and help me find my way back to her.
The room started to spin. Sylvia became a label-clad blur. I got up from the leather chair and opened the thick wooden door. I needed air. I couldn’t breathe. I felt the vomit crawl its way up my throat as I ran towards the nearest bathroom. Ghoulish faces seemed to surround me as I burst through the bathroom door and shut myself in the tiny stall. I got down on my knees just in time for the green vomit to spew into the porcelain bowl. My greasy hair stuck to my clammy skin. I let out a banshee-like holler once the dry heaving stopped.
The door opened. Sylvia stood on the other side with her arms crossed and a hard expression plastered on her otherwise emotionless face. I expected her to kick me with her heel and tell me to get the hell out of the building. What I wasn’t expecting was for her to extend out her perfectly manicured hand and help me get off the floor. Without a word, she handed me a bottle of alcohol-free Listerine which I accepted. Avoiding eye contact, I walked towards the sink and swished the liquid around my mouth hoping to erase all the bitter memories along with the bile.
After a few moments, I tried to regain a sense of composure and braced myself for my dismissal. I splashed some ice-cold water on my bare face and for a split second wondered how my once bright blue eyes had become so lifeless and dull. “I’ll clean out my office,” I said still avoiding eye contact.
“No, you’re going to go home, clean yourself, get some rest, and catch the first flight out to New Orleans tomorrow morning.” She shoved a brown manila envelope into my hands. Her eyes pierced mine as I finally met her gaze. “Read these files as soon as you get home.”
I let out a small sigh of defeat. “Fine. I suppose I owe you this. Any other boss would have fired my ass a long time ago.”
“Yes, they would have.”
“How am I going to get anywhere near the Dubois family?” I asked finally getting used to the idea that I wouldn’t be able to squeeze my way out of this assignment. “They’re already hounded by journalists and from what I could tell their security team is tight.”
“You don’t get to my position without doing a few illicit things and knowing all the right people. Here, take this.” She handed me a glossy black business card engraved with the words Madame Queenie’s Bed and Breakfast. Sylvia knew everyone and everything in New York, but I wasn’t aware that her tentacles spread across the country.
“Madame Queenie?” I asked raising a bushy eyebrow. “How is a Bed and Breakfast owner going to help me get close to the Dubois family?”
“New Orleans isn’t like New York. Even the elite down South tend to be superstitious. They believe in spirits, ghosts, witches, and the supernatural like Catholics believe in the Virgin Mary, the Holy Ghost, and that damn Jesus loves you character. I don’t know if any of that crap is true, but I do know that Madame Queenie happens to be friends with Mrs. Dubois, Charlene’s mother, and I happen to be good friends with Queenie. Besides, you should know how it works, isn’t your mother originally from down there?”
I ignored her question. “Why would Mrs. Dubois be friends with a B and B owner?” From what I had read about her, the woman came from and was married to old money, the type that would have made Marie Antoinette jealous prior to the French Revolution.
“Queenie claims to know things, so Mrs. Dubois has hired her as her own private detective.”
I scowled. “Seriously? The woman has the resources to hire anyone in the entire world, and she settles for a B and B owner who claims to know things? What does that even mean?” All of a sudden, my life seemed a little less random, a little less odd and a strangely conventional kind of vanilla like a sundae without the sprinkles.
“Trust me, you don’t know Madame Queenie,” she said cryptically.
“Should I even ask how you know her?” I felt myself getting invested in this case and a piece of the old me came flooding back. I thought of Charlene’s angelic face and was determined to help find her at all costs.
Sylvia let out a small, wistful sigh. “We shared a lover in the eighties. Of course, when I found out I was being two-timed I was furious. I hunted down Madame Queenie and my anger vanished. We became fast friends and the rest is as they say history.”
I let out a defeated sigh knowing that no amount of excuses would get me out of this assignment. I hated to admit that Sylvia was right, but I needed to get my act together. If I could help the Dubois family get their girl back, perhaps it would somehow help some of my own wounds that had been festering for far too long.
Chapter Two
Kate
“Sweetheart, I think that you’re too young to become a coffee addict. How about I order you a mango/strawberry smoothie infused with aloe and ginger?” I asked as I glanced over the menu at our favorite local coffeehouse/bistro, Zen’s Pot.
Zoe scrunched her nose and rolled her sky-blue eyes at me as if I were the lamest person in all of Brooklyn. “Mom, you might not want to know this, but there are kids in my class who are already addicted to things way stronger than caffeine.” She peered out the icy window and at the cotton-like snow that was beginning to pile up on the sidewalk.
“Like what?” I asked nonchalantly while trying to ignore that there were, in fact, thirteen-year-olds addicted to hard drugs. Had she already tried pot? Beer? Meth? Coke? The country’s opioid problem was reaching epic proportions, those delightful pills that everyone was being prescribed for every reason imaginable. Richard always told me I worried too much. He was constantly assuring me that Zoe was a smart kid, and despite her dainty appearance, she was tough as a lion.
“Mom, please order me a strawberry soy latte with an extra shot of espresso. You aren’t going to squeeze any information out of me. Your investigative journalist skills don’t work on me. I’m freezing, the last thing I want is a smoothie.” She took off her wool gloves and mindlessly twirled her thick black ponytail around her right hand and opened the book that rested on the table. Currently, she was obsessed with the Handmaid’s Tale, she swore that it wasn’t a work of fiction. I smiled and thought of Richard’s words. She was a smart kid, and I did worry way too much.
“You win, kid. Sit tight. I’ll go order.”
“Thanks,” she muttered without looking up from her book.
I waited in line and glanced at the never-ending selection of holiday brews, mugs, and organic products that lined the wooden shelves suddenly thinking of how Richard’s uptown restaurant could further expand. Over the years, he had changed from the happy-go-lucky boy I had fallen in love with to a determined businessman. “Hey, Sue, how’s it going?” I asked making small talk with my favorite barista when my turn had finally arrived.
Sue looked at me with her squinty brown eyes and gave me an uncharacteristically wicked smile. “It’s going horribly, Mrs. Givens.”
“Oh, why?” I asked with genuine concern. “Did midterms go well?”
“Midterms went fine.”
“Then what’s wrong?” I asked puzzled by her sour attitude. “If Keith dumped you, I can personally assure you that you can and will do much better than him.”
“What’s wrong is you’re standing here making small talk while some bastard is kidnapping your daughter. Or maybe she had enough of you and decided to run away. You know that you’re a terrible mom and now everyone else will too. Whatever happened, you’ll never see her again.”
“What? No? She’s right over there.” I pointed towards the now empty table.
My eyes jerked open and a muffled scream escaped my lips. Every time I slept, I had the same nightmare and woke up with the same feeling of helplessness realizing that it wasn’t a dream but the cruel reality I had to face for the rest of my life. Of course, there were minor aspects of the nightmare that were untrue such as how unk
ind Sue had been, but the rest of it was accurate, or I was convinced that it was. Time and your own mind were tricky realms that were often clouded by half-truths and half-doubts. The police, the tears, the questions, and the inevitable fights with Richard had become one big intertwined ball that seemed impossible to untangle. Eventually, I couldn’t or perhaps refused to separate one event from another.
My mind became a web of endless questions which I had both asked and answered. I had only let her out of my sight for a second—she wasn’t a baby; she knew better than to run off with strangers. Had she really run away from home? It was impossible that she had run away. She had left her gloves and book on the table. Surely, someone must have seen or heard something. She was tough, street smart. Everyone on the block knew her. How was it possible? We had been doing great lately. I was learning how to be a cooler mom, and she was learning that I was her parent and not just her best friend.
After Zoe had disappeared, I had become increasingly withdrawn and desperate to get pregnant again. She had been an unplanned surprise. I had been a twenty-year-old reluctant mother, but the second she opened her eyes, she became our universe. Richard and I had loved one another and her madly. We were that young, hippy couple that everyone publicly hated but secretly envied. We named our daughter Zoe, grew our own vegetables, went to school during the night and made love during all hours of the day, our daughter was the flower girl at our wedding. We did everything backward, but at the end of the day, we knew that it would be impossible to be this happy ever again. We didn’t give a damn about what others thought especially those who claimed to know better than us.
Faded summer light filtered through the floor to ceiling living room window and bounced off the red brick wall in front of me which was still filled with pictures of my girl. I examined them one by one making sure that no one had broken into my apartment and photoshopped them while I slept. Her tiny face covered in pink frosting after her second birthday party, her first day of school and how tiny she looked with her big backpack firmly strapped to her back, her first haircut, her first trip to the beach, the memories came rushing back as did the tears. Then, there were the pictures of Richard. Our first date. The moment I could see we had fallen in love. The way he looked at me when he had held Zoe for the first time. Our wedding day. I was a masochist. I took pleasure in viewing the same pictures every single day even when I knew that the people in them were long gone.