Nope. Instead, he sniffed out the girl who needed to be rescued, and, pretending I was the heroine in said rom-com, I fell for it. He told me later that he saw my bruises when we met and knew I’d be a good little punching bag. Someone who wouldn’t make waves. Someone who would let him do whatever the hell he wanted, because where was I going to go? Like I didn’t know he was sleeping with his coworker too. The one with the Spanish name. Worst-kept secret in town.
Still in my hard plastic chair at the depot that makes my butt numb, I fiddle with my purse, where I have some newly purchased makeup. I open a compact. Peering into the mirror, I’m thankful the cut that probably needs stitches is hidden under my hair and you can’t see the huge lump. The blue and purple around my left eye has slightly faded into a putrid yellowish green that is hard to cover with foundation. I press the foam pouf into the cream-to-powder mix and dab it under my eye, which cakes a bit under my not-enough-sleep wrinkles. Checking the clock on the wall, the one that looks like it belongs in a school classroom, I see I have enough time to check my bandage.
The bathroom in the public facility stinks like shit and bleach. I set my brand-spanking-new roller bag by the sink and place my purse on top, then remove the gauze on my upper arm. I cut myself on the glass that I staged in the kitchen. Which was good, actually. More blood than I intended to leave at the scene. The gauze doesn’t stick to my lacerated skin as I peel it back—God knows I used enough ointment before I applied the dressing. The wound throbs and the covering with the dollop of bacitracin has given it a pus topping that begs for air, but experience tells me that I need to keep it hidden for now. A hefty pour of hydrogen peroxide and an airy, good night’s sleep are at least a day away.
As I’m reapplying the ointment, the door creaks open and a woman, who could be sixteen or forty, drags herself in. She’s carrying only a torn backpack and she gives me a half smile and a shrug when she notices our matching bruises before she disappears into the stall. I wash my hands and use the air dryer, which isn’t one of the high-powered ones that are at all the restaurants now. This one spits out cool air that wouldn’t move a feather. I pull back and wipe my hands on my clothes. I check again in my purse for two prepaid burner phones with all the bells and whistles—one for me to use at my leisure, and one for my contact to be able to get in touch with me. I’ll need to assimilate into life, wherever I land.
North. I’m going north, just far enough away from the last mistake. He’ll pretend to be worried, because who doesn’t worry about their missing wife? Fuck him. Let him find someone else to abuse. Unless my plan works and they arrest him, of course. Although an arrest is hard without a body. Maybe it’ll be just suspicious enough that it’ll ruin his cushy life. Wearing two faces is not in his best interest, even if it’s in mine.
Plus, I have help. Not everyone is on his side. I know some pretenders too, Asshole.
As I grab my bags to leave, I hear sniffing on the other side of the stall door. It’s the teenage forty-year-old. Could be hushed cries, could be a coke habit.
I know better than to get involved in other people’s problems. It never works out how you think it will.
Back in the waiting area, the muffled announcement comes out of the speaker. I’m sure it’s advising us of a departure, but the way it sounds, he might as well be confirming an order from a clown face at a Burger King drive-thru. The number to my bus is flashing on the digital panel above my head and I follow the rest of the sad sacks who line up to board. Judgment weighs heavy when they see the covered bruise on my face and the bandage around my arm. They know I’m running away. But they won’t ask. Maybe they know not to get involved in other people’s problems too.
But of course, I am running—who gets on a bus from here to there at this ungodly hour? Everyone here must be leaving something, or someone, behind. The hippie in the hemp shirt with his pregnant girlfriend are probably escaping parents who think they’re too young to marry and start a family. I happen to agree with them, but kids make mistakes.
Don’t I know it.
Even the little old man in the little old man cap, wearing his proper sports jacket with the suede elbows and carrying the luggage without wheels is probably escaping life in a retirement home. He was probably told We don’t have the energy for you anymore, Dad. We have the kids and their homework and their extracurricular activities to think about. His family probably gave up on him, and he’s off to meet the new love of his life from the senior online dating site. I really hope that’s the truth.
Some passengers are running away, and some are running toward something. I still don’t know which I’m doing.
All I know is, I won’t stop until Asshole Number Whatever pays for what he’s done to me.
3
James
James couldn’t sleep that night—why would he? The cops were just at his house. It was early, maybe seven A.M. when his cell beeped with a text from Rosita.
A Detective Solomon left me a message. Said it was about you and Tessa. What happened?
He’d never called or texted Trey and Rosita last night—it was too late by the time the police left. He had enough other shit to deal with.
Rather than calling or texting her back, he ambled into the kitchen—the room that previously contained Tessa’s blood and hair. Nothing like some evidence to go with your morning coffee. He decided to duct tape a garbage bag over the broken window to keep the air-conditioning contained. He’d have to make some calls over the weekend: one, to see if insurance covered it, and two, to get it replaced.
Candy followed his every move, as he went to the closet where they kept the extra garbage bags, and then into the garage, where he kept the duct tape on the second shelf. After retrieving it, he cut the bag into a square and secured it into place. He didn’t know what else to do.
It was Friday morning. Was he supposed to go to work?
James looked at the leftovers—the leftovers from his wife. The stains on the tile, what was left after the swiping. The glass was cleaned up. Her hair was gone. After forensics left, well after midnight, he had gone to bed and forced himself to fall asleep, even though it was that horrific, broken sleep. Every sound woke him with a start. At least it was a nice departure from the nightmares. It’s all a misunderstanding, he told himself. He decided to call his neighbor.
After starting the coffee, James strolled into their home office. He could call from the landline that Tessa insisted they have, but then went back into the kitchen and grabbed his cell. A clear record of what he was trying to do. Looking for her could be important, if it came up. The trilling of the phone line ate at him as he waited for an answer.
“Hello?” Nick said, his voice still scratchy with before-morning-coffee sound.
“Nick. Hi. It’s James Montgomery.”
“James,” Nick said, then paused. “Did Candy get out again?”
Candy had gotten out of their yard three times in the last few months, always ending up at Nick and Gwen’s, hovering at the open door of their pool house. She was the reason they’d met their neighbors to begin with. James had frantically run to each and every house that first time she’d gone missing, pounding on their doors, until Candy’s wiggling butt came to the front with Nick. The faint smell of bacon wafted out of the entryway to the porch, where he saw a very satisfied Candy waiting, belly full of pig fat.
“Nah, nothing like that. How are you doing?” James decided to start. He didn’t want to jump right into oh-my-God-Tessa-is-missing. A fact-finding mission seemed like a better idea.
Nick cleared his throat. “Woke up on the right side of the grass, so all is well. Is everything okay?”
“I was wondering if maybe Tessa contacted Gwen last night? For wine? Or anything else?”
There was a pause, then Nick answered. “Last night? Nope. Caleb has the flu. Gwen was taking care of him all night.” He stopped, clearly not welcoming the intrusive early phone call. “Is there something I can help you with, or—?”
James sighed. “I don’t know, Nick. Tessa disappeared last night. I got home late, and she was missing.”
“Missing?” Doubt crept into his voice. “Are you sure she didn’t—”
“I had the cops here. The kitchen window was broken. There was blood.”
“Jesus!” There was a muffled sound, as if Nick cradled the phone to his shoulder, and he called for Gwen. When the voices came back into focus, James heard Gwen’s voice as Nick told her what happened.
The percolator stopped with a glub, and the scent of Colombian beans filled the space around him. James opened the cabinet above the dishwasher and retrieved a mug and poured. He grabbed two small sugar packets that Tessa had swiped from Dunkin’ Donuts and flicked them with his middle finger, then tore the paper and emptied them into his mug. Another text vibrated on his phone, which he ignored at first. “Her purse and phone are here. The cops suspect foul play. Did either of you happen to hear anything? See a parked car that didn’t belong? Anything?”
James pressed his home button on his phone, and it was another text from Rosita.
You have to call me before I call the detective back. I don’t want any trouble.
James’s face scrunched up. Rosita was pushy, she’d been gunning for his job when he was promoted right after he married Tessa. He tapped back.
Gimme 5
Gwen came onto the line. “Oh my God, is everything okay? What happened to Tessa?”
Gwen and Tessa had struck up an unlikely friendship after the first time the neighbors rescued Candy. Gwen and Nick were about James’s age and had a four-year-old son, Caleb. Gwen was obsessed with him, already a helicopter mom. She hovered over him at the playground, fought with strangers online about the necessity of vaccinations, checked all his food and clothing to make sure the materials were natural, and would drop everything just to get him a spoon. James wouldn’t be surprised if she was still breastfeeding.
That’s what made the friendship unlikely—Tessa had never shown interest in children. The contrary. She’d cover her ears whenever one cried in their vicinity, and she’d roll her eyes if there were children next to them in a restaurant, even if the kids were well-behaved. Yet she’d spent an awful lot of time down the block with Gwen during the day when she was supposed to be chasing clients.
“I don’t know what to think. When was the last time you saw her?” James asked.
There was a pause on the line, and James could practically see Nick and Gwen whisper-fighting. The silence was deafening until he heard a wail from Caleb in the background. Find Boo Bear, Mommy! Now!
“I haven’t seen her this week, but I gotta go. Here’s Nick.”
Just like that, she was gone, and Nick was back on the line. “Hey, man, if you need anything, call us, okay?” he said.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to stop into the police station before work. See if they’ve figured anything out yet. Let me know if you guys remember anything.”
The line went dead, leaving Rosita’s text staring up at him. He scrolled through his contacts and pressed her name.
It rang once. Twice. He pictured where she was in her condo, just five minutes away. Was she in the master bathroom, diligently applying her false eyelashes that she wore every day? Rolling her bleached-on-the-bottom hair into big curls, like she always wore it? Sitting on the bed, dressed, pressing her heel into one of the stilettos she always paired with her suits? Draping herself with a blazer, over a too-small tank top? Applying a pink metallic gloss on her plump lips? Lips that had—
“James!” she screeched into the phone, in a whisper, even though he knew she was alone. Probably. She was probably alone. She’d better be alone. “What the hell is going on? Why would a detective call me?”
“Tessa is missing. She disappeared last night. While we were out.”
“We weren’t out, James. It was a group thing.” She said it with obvious contempt.
Originally, it was her idea to take VistaBuild out for drinks to try to win them over. Their corporate headquarters were in the DC area, although their direct contacts, Andy and Kyle, worked at satellite offices, and they’d already been approved for funding by James’s bank and two others. Rosita wanted an edge. She’d mentioned to James, in a too-close whisper after VistaBuild left, that he should stay for a few more drinks with Trey and Aleesha. But really, with her. It turned into couples’ night.
Only James and Rosita weren’t a couple.
“Well, anyway, I told them we were all out with Vista,” James said. “They probably just want to confirm that I was there all night.”
She huffed. “I didn’t see you all night.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, but you weren’t there all night. You were gone for about a half hour. You told us you had a nosebleed. It was right before Trey came in.”
Fuck, she’d heard him say that? He had to think of something to say when Andy noticed blood on his shirt. James paused. Careful. “I had to move my car. You know they ticket or boot or tow the cars in that vacant lot across the street after eight. I was trying to find a place to park on Main. It was packed, and yes, I had a nosebleed. I get them all the time. But I was just moving the car,” he said again, to drive the point home. See, I wasn’t doing anything violent. “I came right back in.”
Her lips smacked together, finishing her gloss. He knew the sound well. “What am I supposed to say, James? I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want you to get in trouble either.”
“Just tell them the truth. We all went out for drinks after work. I left a little before nine. I mean, that is the truth.”
It was the truth, and one more thought crept into his head.
Rosita was late. He’d met Andy and Kyle at the restaurant right after six, and she didn’t get there till almost seven. They left the bank at the same time. Where was she?
“I’ll be a little late this morning. I’m going to see if the cops have any new information. What time are Andy and Kyle coming back in?” The two men had been in and out of their office all week.
“Early. Before ten,” she said. “Well. Anyway. Let’s hope the cops find Tessa.”
She hung up without uttering a goodbye, and James noticed the edge to her voice.
Yes, he’d stop at the station. Right after he dropped his shirt off at the dry cleaner’s.
4
Tessa
Once I land at the bus depot, I grab my bag and head into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. It’s early afternoon, and this station is filled with more people than the last one. These people look more like they are going on a trip rather than running away. There are parents with children clutching stuffed animals and even a few looking like they are headed to a business meeting, all dressed up, holding leather-bound cases.
In the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and unzip my purse, fingering the little vinyl holder containing my cash—all nine thousand, one hundred forty-two dollars of it. Having been in this position before—leaving an abusive ex—that’s goddamn lottery money. I can do anything. This time, I want to start over the right way. Every time I left an ex before, I’d jump right into something else, mostly because I had no money and nowhere to go. So I let men treat me however they wanted. I stunk of desperation, and I was always taken advantage of. Always.
There was no choice. Where was I supposed to go?
I finish freshening up, swipe on some extra deodorant, and walk back outside, a beautiful sunny day, still too hot for this time of year but with less humidity than my last living arrangement. There is a long cab line forming so I hurry to the back, not thrilled about my next destination.
On the bus ride, I had purposely researched areas on “that” side of town—the side with the million laundromats, the check cashing places, and the “WE BUY GOLD” signs in the window. Where people hang out on street corners to sell drugs or sell themselves.
In case my ex is watching me. He can’t think I left and that I’m living high on the hog.
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He’d rather have me killed.
When my turn in line arrives, the driver, Hobart, is an older Black man in his fifties with a potbelly and a stained yellow T-shirt that I know must’ve been born white. His hair, graying at the exposed sides, is under a beige-and-red plaid old-man hat. He looks adorable. Like a grandpa I’ve seen in movies. I don’t know my grandparents other than what I’ve heard. If the stories are true, I’m better off without them. Not that I could ever believe a word out of my mother’s mouth anyway.
He places my wheelie bag in the trunk and then plugs the address I give him into his GPS, and we are on our way to the no-tell-motel-type place I found. The pleather in the back seat is ripped and scratchy on my bare legs and the air is stuffy with a faint cigar smell. This cab clearly hasn’t had a working air conditioner in years, and I can almost smell the last ten passengers.
When he pulls into the Empire Motel, Hobart slows the cab to a gentle sputter near the door to registration. The sign’s neon is busted in half the spots and fluttering in the working spots. The outside is filthy and decaying. So filthy. Hobart turns to look at me in the back seat.
“You sure this is where you want to go, lady?” he asks with raised eyebrows, and his slight southern drawl and gravelly voice surprises me. He sounds like Ray Charles.
I press my lips together and smile a no-teeth smile. “I’m sure. What do I owe you?”
He tells me twelve dollars and twenty cents. I hand him fifteen and tell him to keep the change. I exit the vehicle at the same time he does, and he retrieves my bag from the trunk. He looks around, taking in the loitering men outside, ones with gang signs tattooed on their arms and faces. At the far end, there is a screaming baby in a carriage while the young mother ignores it and yells into a flip phone about child support. What can only be a prostitute comes out of one of the rooms and closes the door behind her, wriggling her skirt down as she leaves and then lights a cigarette. Marijuana is in the air as dollar bills trade hands in the form of a handshake.
Finding Tessa Page 2
