“Relax,” she muttered. I don’t answer to you, buddy. At least I don’t think I do.
At last a man exited Tara’s building. He was tall, thin, wearing a Patriots jacket and light-wash jeans. He nodded a hello to the officer and popped his headphones in as he made his way down the brick steps. Alex trailed him around the corner. When they were
out of view, she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and she held up the mirror in her
hand. It flashed bright sunlight over his face and he threw his hand up to block the glare,
stepping back.
“What the hell?”
Alex snapped the mirror shut. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought you were Tom Brady.”
The guy shot her an ugly look and strode off.
Alex jogged back to the apartment building. When she approached the officer at the door, she held up the mirror like a badge. The light fell on his face.
“Back already?” asked the cop, seeing nothing but the captured image of the guy in the
Patriots jacket. Manuscript might have the worst tomb, but they had some of the best tricks.
“Forgot my wallet,” Alex said, making her voice as gruff as possible.
The cop nodded and she vanished inside the front door.
Alex pocketed the mirror and headed down the hall, moving quickly. She found Tara’s
apartment on the second floor, the threshold marked by police tape.
Alex thought she might have to pick the lock—she’d had to learn the basics after her
mom had gone all tough love and barred her from the apartment. There had been
something eerie about breaking into her own home, slipping inside like she was herself a
phantom, standing in a space that might have belonged to anyone. But the lock on Tara’s
door was missing entirely. It looked like the cops had removed it.
Alex nudged the door forward and ducked beneath the tape. It was clear no one had been back to try to straighten up Tara’s apartment after the police had been through it.
Who would? One of its occupants was in police custody, the other dead on a slab.
Drawers were pulled open, cushions removed from the couches, some cut open by the
police looking for contraband. The floor was littered with debris: a framed poster that had
been yanked out of its frame, a discarded golf club, makeup brushes. Even so, Alex could
see Tara had tried to make it a nice place to live. There were colorful quilts pinned to the
walls, all purples and blues. Calming colors, Alex’s mom would have said. Oceanic. A dream catcher hung in the window above a collection of succulents. Alex picked up one of
the small pots, touching her fingers to the fat, waxy leaves of the plant inside. She’d bought one almost exactly like it at a farmers’ market. They required almost no care or water. Little survivors. She knew her plant had probably been thrown into the garbage or
bagged as evidence, but she liked to think of it still sitting on the windowsill at Ground Zero, gathering sun.
Alex walked down the narrow hall to the bedroom. It was in a similar state of disarray.
A heap of pillows and stuffed animals lay by the bed. The back of the dresser had been taken apart. From the window, Alex could just make out the peaked tower of the old Marsh mansion. It was part of the forestry school, its long, sloping backyard full of greenhouses—and all just a few minutes walk from Tara’s place. What did you get up to,
girl?
North had paused in the hall by the bathroom, hovering. Something with effluvia, he’d told her.
The bathroom was long and skinny, with little room to move between the standing sink
and the battered shower-tub combination. Alex eyed the items on the sink, in the wastebasket. A toothbrush or used tissues weren’t going to do it. North had said the item
should be personal. Alex opened the medicine cabinet. There was barely anything left inside, but perched on the top shelf was a blue plastic box. A sticker on the lid read: Change your smile, change your life.
Alex popped it open. Tara’s retainer. North looked skeptical.
“Do you even know what this is?” Alex asked. “Do you know you’re looking at the miracle of modern orthodonture?” He crossed his arms. “Didn’t think so.”