Lotham nods.
“For eleven months, the girls have been working on this . . . something. It’s gotten so intense and stressful. Livia’s breaking down, while Angelique’s terrified enough to risk making contact and dropping breadcrumbs. Except it’s still not enough. Angelique’s worst fears come true. Livia is killed . . .”
My voice trails off. “Meaning, whatever the project is, it’s nearing completion. They don’t need Livia anymore. Or Angelique.”
Lotham doesn’t disagree. “Except these are still questions, not answers. Nearly a year later, we’re no closer to the who, what, or where. Best lead we got is some mythical older brother of Livia’s who inspires fear.”
“I saw him again tonight.”
“Who?”
“Our mystery man. He was standing across the street from my apartment. When I pulled back the curtain of my apartment, he stared straight up at me.”
“Goddammit!” Lotham slams down his coffee mug. “You didn’t call me?”
I merely shrug. “And say what, he was just standing there. Except . . . If he was outside my apartment, then he couldn’t have been the one killing Livia. Could he?”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion. We don’t have time of death. Meaning he could’ve very well killed Livia, then come to monitor your actions. Dammit. Everything about this case. Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
“You need some sleep. We both need some sleep.”
“Because it’ll look better in the morning? It is fucking morning and a girl is dead!”
I don’t say anything, just take his hand. I feel his rage, his frustration. I’ve been there myself. Fourteen times. And it doesn’t get any easier to take.
“Angelique is still alive,” I tell him.
“Maybe.”
“She needs us. Whatever’s happening . . . it’s all going down fast. We have to figure this out. We will figure this out. But not like this. When’s the last time you even closed your eyes?”
He doesn’t answer. By my calculations, it’s probably been days. And exhaustion is clearly taking its toll.
“Come on. I’m taking you upstairs. Grab an hour or two of rest. Then we can review this again. When we’re both a little less insane.”
Lotham glowers, but doesn’t resist as I take his hand, lead him upstairs. My own thoughts are churning. A mix of crushing sorrow for a girl I never met and didn’t save. A deepening despair over too many questions and not enough answers. A growing dread that the clock is ticking, mercilessly now, and if we don’t figure this out . . .
Help us, Angelique had written.
Except we didn’t.
I make Lotham sit on the edge of the mattress. He removes his sidearm and gold shield, placing them neatly on the bedside table. He moves on autopilot, his eyelids already lowering, his body collapsing as I divest him of everything but his T-shirt and boxers. His chest is broad, and heavily muscled. I do not trace his collarbone with my fingertips. I do not trail my lips along the hollow of his throat.
Instead, I lift his legs and tuck him into bed.
“Good night, Detective.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“I didn’t say Paul.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Good night, Detective.”
I put him to bed. Then I take up watch in front of the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer out. But no gold-chained gangster is staring up at me.
“I’m going to learn your secrets,” my guest says sleepily.
“Shhh . . .”
I let the detective sleep. Then I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my window, and think of Livia Samdi, and Angelique Badeau, and what it means to be a teenage girl. The mistakes we all make. The moments we’ll never get back again.
Then, I do say his name. “Paul.”
And I smell blood and I feel pain and I let it wash over me, the price of my sins.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I’m not talking to Paul anymore. I’m talking to Livia Samdi, and all the girls like her.
Then I pray, as hard as I’ve ever prayed, for Angelique Badeau. For us to find her in time. For her to be out there, still alive, still okay.
For her to please, please, please, come home again.
CHAPTER 30
I don’t sleep. My thoughts are spinning too swiftly. Five a.m., Lotham tossing restlessly, I give up and tiptoe out of my room. Stoney has an ancient desktop in his office. I fire it to life, hoping it might provide some insights.
I brew a fresh pot of coffee as I wait for it to boot up. Then I take a seat and have at it.
First, I Google the name Tamara Levesque. It has to mean something, I think. Though, why a college student in Western Mass? But Emmanuel said his sister didn’t dream, she made plans. So what was Angelique trying to tell us? What did we need to know?
I get four hits. Three of them are Tamara Levesques who live in other states. The fourth is a mention on an Instagram page.
I have plenty of experience with social media; in this day and age, it’s impossible to search for missing persons without following their digital footprints. Now, I log in and look up Tamara Levesque.
Immediately, a page for Gleeson College loads up. I discover dozens of photos of a college campus surrounded by rolling green hills and old brick buildings. There are pictures of laughing kids sitting outside, more smiling students inside classrooms. It takes me a bit to pick out Tamara. She’s pictured in a lab, her face partially obscured by goggles as she handles a flask over a Bunsen burner. Her black hair is pulled back tight—Tamara’s image on the license, versus Angelique’s heavy ringlets from her missing poster. But it’s the same girl.
Which leaves me even more confused. Angelique is using her fake ID to enroll in college? That makes no sense at all. So what did Angelique need me to see here? What’s she trying to tell us?
Gleeson College is listed as a small liberal arts college. It appears to rest at the foothills of the Berkshires, with the address given as some town I’ve never heard of. It offers online classes as well as a traditional classroom education. I peruse photo after photo of beaming college students, then read a note from the president—a stern-looking white dude in thick black glasses and gray three-piece suit. I didn’t know people still wore three-piece suits.
I review each photo in detail, then return to the collection as a whole. All in all, Gleeson College looks just like any other New England university, albeit with a particularly pretty campus.