Fatema cringed when Tracy called her Fat Ema, but what could she do? They were both grieving the loss of the most important person between them, and it just felt wrong to protest.
“I miss the hell out of her.”
“I’m lost without her,” Tracy’s eyes clouded over.
Fatema pulled the young woman to her and held her. “I know, honey. I know.”
“She used to talk about you behind your back, you know,” Tracy said, as she sat up and wiped away tears.
Fatema looked appalled. “She did? What did she say?”
“Said you were your own worst enemy and your biggest fan.”
The two of them fell into each other laughing hysterically. People in the room looked at them like they were crazy.
“She was so right,” Fatema nodded. “Looking at myself is like watching a train wreck. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it.”
“She loved the mess outta you, though.” Tracy squeezed her hand. “And she knew you loved her too.”
“How was she doing, Tracy?”
Tracy sighed. “Well, you know how she always hated drama?”
“Loathed it.”
“She was drowning in it, Fatema.” Fatema looked stunned. “She was a moody mess because of it too.”
“Man problems?”
“Men problems,” Tracy corrected her. “And work problems. And I’m-not-happy-with-the-way-my-life-turned-out blues.”
“She sounds like every other woman I know,” Fatema said sarcastically.
“Speak for yourself,” Tracy shot back. “Because I ain’t tripping.”
“Sorry. I forgot that you had your act together.”
“Since birth.”
“So who was she seeing? Anybody I might know?”
“Well, the brotha giving her the most grief is affectionately known as Mr. X because she wouldn’t tell me his name.”
“He was married?”
“Of course. He started tripping when she broke it off with him, though, blowing up her cell phone, blasting her with e-mails, even showing up at her job. But the other brotha had her thinking marriage and kids and the house in the suburbs. She was really feeling him. I think she loved him.”
“What was his name?”
“Nelson. Cute too, girl!” Tracy exclaimed. “I met him once, and slobbered all over myself.”
Fatema laughed, and the reporter in her stirred from her slumber, and that inquisitive thing she came by naturally made the hair on her arms stand up. “You think either of them might have some idea of why this happened?”
Tracy cut her off. “Girl, don’t ask me. Toni was—I don’t know. She’d been acting really strange lately. I don’t even think Nelson knew where she was coming from half the time. We all met for drinks one night, laughing and having a good time, then all of a sudden, she gets real serious and brings up something she’d heard on the news about some missing Russian ambassador’s daughter. And that led to conversations of other people’s missing children and immigrants in this country and disadvantages and exploitation. I lost my buzz real quick. Nelson did too, from the look on his face, but since it was obvious the man had caught feelings over her, he entertained the conversation. I left. But, you know how she got sometimes,” Tracy gave a sly grin. “Every once in awhile she got a wild hair up her behind to save the world and everybody in it and that sociology major came up like the resurrected dead or something.”
“Yeah, I used to have to tell her to back off, because she used to try and drag me along.”
“But she was all obsessed about this chick. I went by her place one day and she was on the Internet, reading all of these articles about her, Alina Petrov or whatever. She showed me some of the articles, and I asked her what was up, but she just said . . . she didn’t know for sure.”
Fatema drove home with the conversation she’d had with Tracy heavy on her mind. Toni had been dead for nearly a week, and the police still hadn’t found the killer. Maybe she was just looking for a reason to butt in. Tracy hadn’t told her anything all that extraordinary. Toni had a man she’d broken up with and who had her tripping. That was a broad term, “tripping,” and it could’ve meant a lot of things. Jilted lover murders woman for wanting to leave him—seemed mighty clichéd for this day and age, but hey, it happened. And then there was the other thing making her “trip.” That girl who’d gone missing about a month ago that Toni had become so enthralled with recently. How and why would something like that ever pop up on the radar of a city planner? Fatema wondered.
Tracy had been kind enough to give Fatema a key to her sister’s condo. She needed to see it—to connect with her friend one last time. She stood outside the door with the key in her hand, daring herself to put it in the lock and open the door. Fatema didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, but eventually she realized that today was not the day to go inside. She’d burst like a dam if she did, and there’d be no amount of objectivity in her.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to Toni’s spirit. “I’ll go inside tomorrow, T.”
Nelson
There was a time in his career when Nelson Monroe waited hands and feet on the rich and famous. He was the very successful manager of a very successful five star hotel called The Menagerie in downtown Denver, and he was miserable. Ten years ago, he turned his life around and found his true calling. These days, he was a lot poorer, but his life had purpose now, and he loved what he did for a living.
Nelson could’ve written a book on his life. He’d literally come from nothing to become a successful young businessman, and the sky would have been literally the limit had he kept on that same path. But there was always something in him that would never fully let him enjoy his success. There was the sad part of him, lonely and afraid, that served a dual purpose. On the one hand, it drove him to work hard to finish school, get into college, and graduate at the top of his class, and find his own piece of the American dream. But on the other hand, it was the thorn in his side, the fly in his soup, that one thing that held a part of him at bay, standing on the outside of the window looking in.
His mother raised him and his brother. Nelson’s father died when Nelson was young and he barely remembered the man. But he remembered being happy before his father passed away. He remembered feeling safe. His mother did the best she could, but it was never good enough. For years they lived on the streets, homeless, wandering, the boys were in and out of school. They slept in strange places and beds, and found food whereever they could. Those were his formative years, and they were as much a part of who he was as an arm or leg.
One Thanksgiving, for reasons he still didn’t understand, Nelson volunteered at The Broadway to help serve food to the homeless, and he felt like a man reborn. A man with purpose. It was the happiest day in his life, and he said a quiet prayer that night, thanking God for his true calling finally finding him. He became a regular volunteer, helping out any way he could, from preparing and serving food, to purchasing supplies with his own money to help keep the shelter thriving. It was such a gradual and natural shift in his life, that he seemed to wake up one day and find that the hotel had become a distant memory, replaced by a run-down and tattered old church that had magically become his.
“Nelson, now, you need to get away from my stove ’fore you burn something up.” Lois Anderson nudged him with her hip and took the spoon he was stirring in a pot from his hands.
“How many times do I have to tell you I know how to cook, woman?” he retorted playfully, relinquishing control to the older woman.
Lois immediately began to toss various seasonings into the simmering chili. “No. You know how to heat up, but you ain’t no cook. That’s my job.”
“I’m just trying to help, Miss Lois.” He softened his tone.
“Fine. You can help me by finishing up that budget you trying not to work on so I’ll know what I got to work with the rest of the month. That’s how you can help me.”
Lois was like everyone’s mother. A sweet, plump,
feisty woman with a heart of gold and that tough kind of love that made you just want to do better. She’d been there longer than he had.
The kitchen was her domain, and off limits to everyone except—
A lump swelled in his throat just thinking about her. Lois was a valiant woman, but she’d been close to Toni, and even though she masked the sadness in her voice, there was no way she could hide it in her eyes.
“You miss her,” he said, quietly. “Don’t you?”
Lois continued seasoning and stirring, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. “I do,” she answered shortly.
A part of him expected Lois to turn to him, and fall crying into his arms, but then he remembered that Lois would do no such thing. She’d grieve, like all of them, in her own quiet way. Nelson left her to her duties, went back into his office and closed the door behind him.
He stared out of the window to the brick wall of the building next door, just across the alley. He’d given up his hope of ever actually having a “view” a long time ago. Through the years, Nelson had memorized every line, every brick of that building wall, and learned to meditate on it.
Toni had been so much like him. She lived and worked in a world that could never live up to her passion. And she’d been drawn to The Broadway because it filled the same void in her that it filled in him.
“The Broadway can break your heart,” she told him late one night.
The two of them lay naked on the floor of her apartment. Nelson held her in his arms, and buried his nose in her hair.
“But I’m needed there,” she continued quietly. “I’m doing something good there.”
No one knew they were seeing each other. They were private people, and what mattered most to both of them were the people who came through The Broadway who needed their help.
“I love you,” he confessed that night.
Toni stared back at him, and softly pressed her palm to his cheek. She smiled. “Good,” was all she said.
Nelson blinked and a tear fell down his cheek. Life was a balance of the good and the bad. Angels were all around, but then, so were devils. The police had questioned him and his staff several times about the night she died.
Had she worked at the shelter that night?
Yes, but she left early.
Do you know where she went after she left the shelter?
Home. He assumed.
What time did you leave, Mr. Monroe?
His usual time around nine.
And where did you go after you left?
Stopped at the store for milk (he still had the receipt if they needed to see it) and then back to his apartment, where he spoke briefly with a neighbor in the elevator on the way up. And yes. He spent the rest of the evening at home alone.
Did she have any problems with anyone who worked here or any of its residents?
No. Everyone loved Toni.
A knot tightened in his stomach.
Everyone loved her. He loved her more than he ever thought possible.
In My Sister’s House
Toni’s parents couldn’t bring themselves to pack up her apartment yet. Tracy left crying every time she tried. Fatema let herself inside, carrying boxes and packing tape. The Northeast Denver condo was impeccable, but Fatema wasn’t surprised. Toni always had been a neat freak, bordering on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Fatema had always been the opposite. Both of them used to drive the other crazy when they lived together, but somehow, they found a hallowed in-between space of acceptance that worked for them.
Toni had tastefully decorated in muted earth tones and textures; a sliver of her wild side came out in unexpected splashes of vibrant colors, fusing the peace of her abode, making everything look like it had fallen out of a magazine.
The police had been through her apartment with a fine tooth comb, and surprisingly enough, had been pretty respectful. Toni’s laptop, which had been confiscated, sat on the coffee table. All of her personal files were stacked in a chair across from the sofa, instead of being placed back in the cabinet where they belonged.
Fatema turned on the CD player, knowing that she’d dig whatever song it played because Toni had great taste in music. Angie Stone serenaded her, as she slowly began packing, forcing herself not to get bogged down by sadness. She should’ve kept in touch. She should’ve called more. She should’ve returned Toni’s calls. She should’ve kept better track of her friend.
While putting the file folders in boxes, Fatema accidentally dropped one, and all its contents spilled out onto the floor. Newspaper clippings going back several months of missing children littered the floor. She sat down on the floor and studied each of them before dropping them into the box next to her.
Fifteen-Year-Old Girl Missing
Eleven-Year-Old Girl Kidnapped
Sixteen-Year-Old Girl Found Dead After Missing Three Years
Toni had been obsessed with this stuff. In some cases she’d even gone so far as to research some of these stories on the Internet, printing hundreds of pages of information and keeping detailed files on these girls. Gradually, Toni’s research changed from stories of missing girls to the subject of human trafficking. Her files contained story after story of people from all over the world being coerced, tricked, or even abducted, and forced to work for next to nothing, enslaved and tortured, forced to live secretly under the most inhumane conditions.
In one of the files, she found the picture of the Russian college girl who’d disappeared from an airport in New York City on her way to an Ivy League college. The woman’s picture plastered the front page of the article. Her name was Alina Petrov, and she was nineteen years old Her parents said in an interview that the last time they’d seen their daughter was when they said goodbye to her at the airport in London with several of her friends who had all been accepted at Brown. Upon further investigation, after their daughter was reported missing, Brown had no record of any of the students.
She knew the police had already gone through Toni’s laptop, but Fatema turned it on anyway, hoping she could get a better idea of what Toni had been on to.
Of course it was password protected. And of course, Fatema knew what the password was. B-I-L-B-O. Toni had been a huge fan of J.R.R. Tolkien’s book The Hobbit and named her first cat after the main character. Toni used that password for everything, even after that damn cat got run over by the garbage truck eight years ago.
She had no idea what she was looking for, but she started with Toni’s e-mail account. She typed in BILBO again and instantly had access to Toni’s inbox. There were hundreds of e-mails, mostly spam, a few invites, and notes from friends. And some very interesting strings from two men, Luke1963, and Mainman2. Reading through these e-mails was like reading the woman’s diary.
Luke1963:
We need to talk. Please. Just talk to me. Meet me somewhere. TBabe:
You’re disgusting and you need help. I should’ve left a long time ago. I can’t believe I actually believed I loved you.
Luke1963:
It’s not what you think. You mean everything to me, and without you, I’m afraid of what I’m capable of. Please don’t shut me out. TBabe:
You’re a greedy man, L. You want it all, no matter who you hurt in the process, no matter what it takes to get it. You are not my responsibility.
Luke1963:
You said you loved me. Love works through problems. It doesn’t run away from them.
TBabe:
Love doesn’t do the shit you do. If you don’t leave me alone, I swear, I’ll put it out there.
The string from Mainman2 weeks later, was vastly different.
Mainman2:
Guess what’s on my mind? Go ahead. I’ll give you three guesses. TBabe:
Me.
Two more.
Me, me, and us.
Mainman2:
That’s four things. But yeah. When can I see you again?
TBabe:
My place. Tonight. At 6.
Mainman2:
Do I n
eed to bring anything?
TBabe:
Yes—your smile and that sexy way you talk to me that makes my toes curl.
Mainman2:
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were just using me for my body.
TBabe:
Got a problem with that?
Mainman2:
Do you love me?
TBabe:
More every day.
Mainman2:
No. No problem. But even if you didn’t love me, I still wouldn’t have a problem with it.
So who the hell were Luke 1963 and Mainman2? Fatema checked Toni’s contacts list, and found that Luke1963’s profile was left blank, while Mainman2 had information filled in. She wrote down his name, Nelson Monroe, and his phone number.
Only You
More than a week had passed since Ivy saw the headlines of the woman who’d been murdered. The Asian people living with her in the basement had been taken away, but Alina was still there, and growing less talkative and more despondent by the day. The woman taking care of them never looked at them, and seldom said a word when she came down. Alina had stopped eating and this time the woman stared angrily at her when she saw the girl’s food virtually untouched on her plate.
“I’m not going to keep bringing food down if you’re not going to eat it,” she said, gritting her teeth. Alina sat like a stone, as if the woman hadn’t spoken to her at all. “Fine,” the woman, turned to leave. “You can starve for all I care.”
Dark circles had formed under Alina’s eyes. She slowly raised them to Ivy. “The food is disgusting,” she whispered.
“But it’s food,” Ivy said. “And she won’t bring you any more.”
“I’d rather die than stay here,” she said defiantly. “Unlike you. You’re like a pet, Ivy. You do what they tell you to, without protest or fight, and they keep you like a cat or a dog.” Her venomous words hurt, and Ivy averted her gaze. “I’m no one’s pet.”
“They’ll kill you if you misbehave, Alina,” Ivy said quietly. “And besides, this place isn’t so bad.”
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