Meaning that if she wanted to keep secrets, a diary might not be out of the question. The police had to have gone through her things; her aunt and brother, too. But this is where a fresh pair of eyes doesn’t hurt.
Maybe I could get Guerline to meet me at the apartment on her lunch break? Which would make this morning a good time for the rec center. Even if there aren’t kids around, it would be helpful to meet the staff who work there, some of whom may remember Angelique from the summer before she went missing.
It’s worth a shot.
I lace up my tennis shoes, throw on my olive-colored jacket, and head down the stairs and out the side door.
Where I receive my next surprise of the morning.
Emmanuel Badeau, who’s clearly skipped school, is waiting impatiently for me.
“I have something to show you,” he says without preamble, pushing away from the side of the building. “But you can’t tell my aunt.”
I don’t have time to say yes or no, before he unzips his backpack and removes a battered laptop.
I turn back around, unlock the door, and lead him into Stoney’s bar.
“You do not know my sister,” he starts. “People think because she’s a teenager she must be silly or stupid or impulsive. She’s none of these things.”
“Water?” I ask.
“Coffee,” he orders.
“What are you, thirteen?”
Emmanuel looks up at me blankly. Apparently drinking coffee at thirteen is not shocking in his world. I head to the kitchen to brew up a pot, because I certainly need a cup, giving him time to boot up the laptop. By the time I return, he’s seated at the booth farthest from the front door, frowning over the screen on his laptop. The machine is making a funny whirring noise that doesn’t sound particularly healthy to me. Idly, he lifts up the slender instrument and bangs it down on the table. The grinding noise stops. The battered case, I notice, is covered in stickers. Everything from favorite coffee shops to the Haitian flag to the Red Sox. You can learn a lot about a person from their stickers. So far, I’ve deduced that Emmanuel has the same interests as an average teenager.
“Cream, sugar?” I ask.
The answer turns out to be all of the above. Emmanuel pours enough extras into his mug to turn it into a coffee-flavored milkshake. I take my first sip of shuddering-hot brew, and remind myself it would not taste better with a shot of Baileys. Or Kahlua. Or maybe even that RumChata stuff.
Emmanuel turns the laptop till I can see the screen from my side of the table. It takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing.
It’s like a virtual bulletin board, filled with photos of his sister, and plastered with what appear to be scanned copies of newspaper articles. There are bubble comments here and there and fierce words scrawled across certain sections in bold.
Big Sister. Caring Daughter. Star Student.
It’s a digital collage. Without asking for permission, I take the laptop and pull it over to me. I study each image, each pull-out quote.
A faded photo of a baby with her face covered in smeared bananas. A photo of a little girl sitting on an old couch next to an infant, patting his head like one would pet a dog. Next photo, Angelique and her toddler brother are holding hands, beaming in front of a homemade swing.
Then the most recent photos. Angelique sitting at the table in the apartment, head over her schoolwork. Angelique on the sofa, holding up an exasperated hand, as if to ward off the photographer. Angelique curled up asleep on the sofa, colorful quilt pulled up to her neck, an anatomy book splayed beneath her chin, where it must’ve fallen when she dozed off.
Angelique smiling that same shy smile from her missing poster. But also Angelique laughing, Angelique working. Fifteen-year-old Angelique, growing up in front of my eyes.
Then, I start scanning the words, and I understand everything.
“It was you,” I murmur, looking up at Emmanuel. “You’re the one who keeps posting online, visiting the message boards. You—your posts—you’re the one who brought me here.”
“I didn’t mean you.” He scowls darkly.
“Tell me about this.” I push the laptop back to him. “How did you do this? Why?”
He takes a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts. “That Friday, when my sister didn’t come home, when my mamant called Officer O’Shaughnessy . . . I could see they didn’t take the situation seriously. She will come home, they said. Maybe she had to run an errand or made plans with friends. Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry. These things happen with teenagers. But these things don’t happen with my sister. Not with LiLi.”
His personal nickname for his big sister, from when he was little and couldn’t pronounce Angelique. I had read about it online. A detail provided by Emmanuel, I realize now, in order to humanize his sister. Make her real not just for sympathizers, but to any predator who might be holding her.
“Officer O’Shaughnessy promised he would ask around. He even called a detective, to make my aunt happy, and more officers arrived to question our neighbors. But I could tell they didn’t believe anything was wrong. That they thought at any moment, the door would open and my sister appear.”
“They interviewed your neighbors?”
“Up and down the block. The ones who would answer the door.”
“Knock-and-talks,” I murmur, the beginning of any search.
“I conducted my own knock-and-talks.” Emmanuel feels out the sound of the official words. “Except I reached out to LiLi’s friends. When they said they didn’t know where she could be, I knew she was in trouble. And I knew the police would not be able to help us. But I can’t knock on every door. I can’t make adults talk to me or force the police to listen. So I made this. To keep my sister alive. To let the world know who she is, so that maybe if someone sees her, they will call us. Or”—his shoulders square—“if someone has her, they will see she is a daughter, sister, niece. She is kind and smart. And that person will let her come home again.”
“What about Officer O’Shaughnessy? I thought your aunt liked him.”
“She likes that he speaks Kreyòl. That he drinks soursop and brings over his mother’s homemade meat patties. He’s familiar, but he’s not the same. He’s an American whose family came from Haiti. My aunt, my sister, myself, we are Haitians who now live in America. He has never felt the ground shake beneath his feet. He doesn’t understand that it can happen again.”
The way Emmanuel says this, I realize he’s not talking strictly about the earthquake that flattened Port-au-Prince ten years earlier. He’s speaking of their life even now, filled with an uncertain future.
“Are you happy here?” I ask. “Do you—did Angelique—want to stay?”