I don’t make it a question. I’m not a tentative person. And she responds, after a few seconds, by inching the door open. “Do you have ID?”
I silently produce my wallet and show her my private investigator license and photo ID. She opens the door fully and steps back, and I cross the threshold.
It’s like stepping into a tomb someone lives in. Everything looks right—the lamps are burning, the blinds are open. But this place has a young man’s style imprint everywhere, from the sports posters on the wall (soccer is a favorite) to a frayed plaid couch that most women would put right out on the curb. A gaming console near the big-screen television. Two controllers perfectly positioned on the coffee table, like monuments. There’s still a hoodie thrown over the back of a gaming chair, and a pair of tumbled sneakers nearby.
As if he were just here. Just stepped away, and this life here is like a game on pause.
The thing that’s out of place is the woman standing in front of me. She’s older than me by at least ten years, but looks older still; there’s an indefinable grayness about her, as if she’s the ghost that haunts this place, not her son. She’s wearing plain black pants, a soft pullover with the University of Tennessee seal on it. It fits a little snugly, and I wonder if it belongs—belonged—to Remy. The thought makes me feel both sad and a little wary.
“I’m Ruth,” she says, and holds out her hand to me. “Ruth Landry.” There’s a faintly Cajun spice to her words, but I don’t think she was born to it. Married into it, most likely. “Thank you for taking our case, Mrs. Proctor.”
I don’t know why she’s assumed I’m a Mrs., but I correct her quickly and efficiently. “Either Ms. or Gwen is fine,” I say, and leaven it with a smile. “Haven’t been Mrs. for a while, and I prefer it that way.”
“Oh,” she says, and then doesn’t quite know what to follow up with. I realize she honestly doesn’t recognize my name at all. She must have lived her life in a hazy bubble of nice things happening to nice people, until her son’s disappearance dropped her with brutal suddenness here in the real world.
I’m honestly grateful that I’m just a regular person to her. And more than a little sad it doesn’t happen more often.
“I’m here to ask about your son,” I tell her, and she nods. She seems awkward and flustered, as if she’s forgotten how to talk to strangers at all. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water, ma’am?”
It gives her something to do, and while she’s filling the glass, I study the apartment some more. Not that it will tell me much on the surface except what I already know.
She hands me the glass, water beading like jewels down the side, and I take it and drink. It tastes surprisingly chemical to me. I’m used to rural water, and in Norton and around Stillhouse Lake, our water tastes delicious. City water . . . isn’t. I drain a couple of mouthfuls and find a coaster to set it on as she motions me to sit. I take the gaming chair as she settles on the couch. It’s an odd feeling, as if Remy’s still sitting in it with me. There’s a comfortable, worn-in feel to the back and seat. I can picture him here—no, wait, I’ve actually seen him here in this chair. Pictures on his social media, with his long legs stretched out to rest on that coffee table. That game controller in his hand.
I lean forward, not eager to sink into that sadness, and take out my phone. “Mrs. Landry, do you mind if I record this? It helps me focus if I’m listening, not taking notes.”
“Of course, anything,” she says. I believe her. There’s a feverish light of hope in her eyes. I’m the first person who’s been here in a long time, who’s asked her to invoke her son and bring him back to reality. “Where should I start?”
“Let’s start with the last time you spoke to him,” I say, and I see her flinch a little. Tender territory. She looks down. Her skin is sallow, a healthy Louisiana tan fading to pallor. Dry and uncared for, as is her hair. I’m not criticizing her, even in my mind; I’m just noting details. I’ve seen photos of her before his disappearance, and she took good care of her body and appearance. She’s abandoned all that now as wasted effort.
“It wasn’t such a good conversation,” she says. “I wish—well. Wishing doesn’t help, now does it?” I don’t answer, and she rushes on. “My Remy was a good boy, he was just—you know, not willing to listen so much to his momma anymore. I can’t blame him. He grew up, and he thought he knew best.”
I wait. She’s getting to something. And sure enough, she finally blurts out, “We had a little bit of a fight, I’m afraid.”
“About what?” I ask.
“About this girl he liked.”
“What was her name?”
“Carol,” she said. “From somewhere up north.” She dismisses the entire north with a wave. “City people.”
I don’t tell her she’s living in a city. I just nod. “Okay. Did you ever meet Carol?”
“No. He just talked about her some. He said he was going to help her out. I didn’t think that was a real good idea; seemed like she was a drifter of some kind. Real religious.”
“Was she his girlfriend? Were they dating?”
“No. He said she was just a friend who needed help. But I don’t know if that’s the real truth. He’d been dating this girl named Karen Forbes, she was a nice one but I don’t think she liked him as much as he liked her. She was a junior at the university. Biology, I think. Real smart.”
“Do you have Carol’s last name?”
“No, he never said, and since she wasn’t his girlfriend I didn’t really ask.”
“Any pictures of her, or maybe some contact information for Karen Forbes you can give me?”
“I’ll go look.” She rushes off toward what I assume will be the bedroom. She’s sleeping in his bed. Wearing his clothes. Man. This isn’t good, and I wonder if her husband understands the depth of his wife’s obsession. But I’m not here to play counselor. I’m here to find her son, and if I understand anything at all about Ruth Landry, it’s that her cure will be the answer to what happened to her son, living or dead. This limbo is a living hell.
She comes back with a framed photo—Remy, with his easy grin, and his arm around a young woman. She’s blonde, tall, curvy, and has a magazine-cover smile. Pretty and lively. The picture tells me nothing about her other than that, but I take it, position it on the coffee table, and take a photo for the records. Then I turn the frame over and pull the picture out, hoping for a note on the back, but it’s just smooth photo paper. I put it back and hand it to Ruth. She repositions it on the coffee table and stares at her son.
“He was pretty serious about her,” she says. “More than he ought to have been at his age. I wanted him back home. His father wanted Remy to inherit the business and run it. But he just wasn’t interested in all that. I think he was going to ask Karen to marry him. But I don’t know that she would have said yes, or if she did, if they’d have made it for long.”
“What kind of business does your husband have?” I ask her. It’s probably in the records, but it’s something to keep her moving. She can’t seem to look away from her son’s face.