by Nina Laurin
I drive in front of the building slowly. It only has four apartments, four dirty-white doors, all of them anonymous and blank. It’s the top one on the right. After I circle around, I leave the car two blocks away and walk through the alleys.
Although the sun is high over the horizon, here, in the damp shadow, it’s colder—so cold that I find myself shivering. The backs of the buildings are even uglier than the fronts: no yards, just rusted emergency stairs and even more rusted balconies, trash cans and recycling bins. Graffiti everywhere.
Place must have seemed like quite a step up after prison.
I don’t have to look very hard to find it because the back door is boarded up. Sloppily, which is lucky for me. I’m able to pry away the piece of plywood with ease. The glass had been shattered, only tiny shards of it remaining around the frame.
Did he do that in a fit of rage? Did she do it, in a last-ditch attempt to get help, to get away from him? I shake my head to chase away the thoughts. He didn’t do it. He didn’t.
I reach in, turn the lock on the other side, and go in.
I’ve been bracing myself for the sight and smell of gore, but what I’m greeted with is the antiseptic scent of cleaner and an expanse of grayed linoleum, not a droplet of blood anywhere. The place had been cleaned professionally. I guess whoever owns it wants its sordid history wiped away and forgotten as quickly as possible, to find new tenants and to move on.
If nothing else, it makes me feel reassured. They’re really through with it now, I think. Figueroa and her crew aren’t coming back here.
Still, I make sure not to touch anything. At home, I’d grabbed a pair of basic rubber gloves that I do dishes in, and now my hands are sweating inside them.
I don’t have any illusions. I know that someone will notice that I broke in, that the plywood is missing, that there are steps echoing where there should be none. Every second I have is precious, yet still, I don’t go straight where I intended. I can’t help it—something pulls me, a magnetic compulsion. I want to see—no, I don’t want to but I think I need to. I need to know how he lived for the last three years, while I was enjoying life in the town house with my blue-blooded fiancé.
The apartment is a small one-bedroom. That’s a generous term because the bedroom itself isn’t separated from the main space except by an open archway where a curtain used to hang. Now there’s only an empty curtain rod with a couple of plastic rings still in the corner. Did it get taken away as evidence, to study the blood splatter? Did he try to wrap the body in it, try to dispose of it?
He didn’t, I remind myself.
The small window is covered with yellowing blinds. Linoleum is ripped out in places. The kitchen isn’t a kitchen but a corner of the main room: a stove, a sink, a squat little fridge that’s not plugged in. The fumes of bleach burn the inside of my nose.
Hesitant, I push the bathroom door, which creaks as it swings open. At first, I wonder if all this is an exercise in futility. There’s barely room to take a shower in here, much less hide something. Still, I kneel on the floor. What I first thought to be tiles aren’t real tiles, just squares of vinyl made to look like ceramic. I try them with my fingertips—everything is solidly glued into place. All kinds of thoughts race through my head. If there was anything to find, they would have found it already, wouldn’t they?
Except they wouldn’t have known to look here. The only person who knows, besides my brother, is me.
The only person living, that is.
I try the second tile from the tub along the wall. It’s as solid as the others, and my attempts to hook my rubber-covered fingernails under it to pry it loose are useless. I look around, and then, reluctantly, get up and go into the kitchen. A quick check of the drawers turns up a couple of mismatched forks and spoons. I take a fork, go back, and kneel again, sticking the edge of the handle under the tile, prod, push, prod.
Little by little, it starts to come loose. My heart is hammering, and despite the chill, my upper lip beads with sweat. Finally, the tile gives way and flies off so abruptly that I lose my balance and fall on my backside. The fork clatters next to me, scattering little bits of dried glue.
Beneath the tile, the opening is small and shallow, and right away I realize I found what I was looking for. There are layers of plastic so thick they’re almost opaque, concealing something beneath them. The plastic rustles when I reach in and take the whole thing out into the light. It’s surprisingly heavy, its weight in my hands alone filling me with dread I can’t begin to articulate. When I peel away the last layer of plastic, they scatter on the floor in front of me—bundles. Rolled-up wads of cash.
It’s like a nightmarish déjà vu. There must be thousands—tens of thousands—of dollars in here, tied with blue elastic bands. Like lettuce. I choke on a shaky laugh.
I don’t know what to do with them all. I sweep them aside and peer into the hiding place—to my terror, there’s more. Something white wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. I open it, not knowing what to expect and ready for anything.
Inside is an envelope. Not sealed, blank. In the envelope, a bunch of papers I can’t make any sense of at first. And when I think that’s all, I feel another shape stuck in the envelope’s corner, a small card that I pull out gingerly.
My brother’s face glares at me, same scowl as in the photo on TV, dark eyes and sunken cheeks. It’s a driver’s license, only the name on it isn’t my brother’s.
My head is spinning, and I have to close my eyes for a second. When I open them, the license is still there, as are the papers and the pile of rolled-up cash. And that means I have to start making sense of all this, soon. There’s no way—no way in hell—I’m going to bring any of it with me. No, not a single bill or shred of paper leaves this place.
I ruffle through them—there’s lots and lots of fine print, and some pages have a chicken-scrawl signature at the bottom that looks like he wrote it with his left hand. The name matches the one on the driver’s license.
At the top of some of the pages, I see a logo. A company name. Access Research Center, it says in minimalist letters. The name and the logo are both vaguely familiar. That’s because they advertise on buses and subway stops, things you don’t really pay attention to unless you’re absolutely desperate for money. They pay cash.
It hits me like a sledgehammer, the three pieces to the very obvious puzzle in my lap. Only then, slowly, the other pieces trickle in, and they don’t add up as smoothly. Why live in this crappy apartment when he had a good fifteen grand stashed in the floor? Why hide it all? Why the same hiding place as back home?
Did he hide it from me—or for me?
I scoop up all the rolls of cash and start to frantically stuff them back into the hiding place: one, two, five, six. That’s when I notice there’s something else clinking around at the bottom.
Cold sweat breaks out all over my back, soaking through my shirt. The voice of reason that’s been screaming at me in the back of my mind rises to a fever pitch: I told you, I told you—this is a bad idea. You stupid, stupid girl.
You’re too soft, Addie, whispers Eli’s voice in the back of my mind. That’s why everyone uses you and throws you away.
I tear off one of the rubber gloves with my teeth because it’s not important anymore. I reach in, and my fingertips brush against a surface so smooth and familiar it’s like coming home. The cool of the enamel caresses the pads of my fingers as I pick it up. It rests so peacefully in the palm of my hand, and it feels like it weighs a fucking ton.
My little lighthouse. My keychain.
The last remaining piece of my life before the fire.
There’s only one place he could have gotten it. From my crashed car, the night Adele was murdered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’m sitting in my rented Ford, parked in the lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts, warming my hands on a Styrofoam cup of coffee I have no intention of drinking. Only now, with my brother’s apartment and the crime scene safely miles behind me, I’m star
ting to feel like myself again. The keychain is in my pocket, and I check on it every five seconds, feeling its familiar shape through the fabric. Still disbelieving that I have it back.
They didn’t find it in my coat or purse or in my old car. Well, now we know why.
What the fuck did you do, Eli? What the fuck.
In a lucky twist, the car has a charger for an iPhone in the glove box, and my phone is blinking at me from the passenger seat as the battery fills up. I put the coffee in the cup holder and pick up the phone.
A few taps on the screen and I’m on the Access Research site, purified blue-and-white interface, minimalist and user-friendly. Just fill out our form and get paid!
As with most things, it’s not really that easy.
Without letting myself hesitate, I thumb the phone number, and the screen switches to phone mode immediately. The line rings and then connects smoothly, with nary a click.
“Access Research Center, how may I help you?”
“H-hi,” I say. Deep down, I didn’t really think a real person would pick up.
“Hello,” says the friendly, patient female voice. She waits for me to speak without urging or threatening to hang up, as I’m sure she’s been instructed. I tell myself she was probably trained during a two-hour seminar and is paid ten bucks an hour. I can take her on.
“I was interested in one of your studies.”
“Very well.” She maintains the exact same intonation. “Age and sex, please?”
“Female. Twenty-seven.”
“Where did you hear about us?”
“Er…your ad? On the subway.”
“Wonderful.” I don’t see how it’s wonderful but I find myself nodding along. “Any particular health conditions?”
“Like…what?”
“Diabetes, heart conditions, hepatitis B or C, HIV…”
“No.”
“Fantastic! We currently have several studies that might interest you. Would you be willing to come in for a preliminary interview and information session?”
“Um, sure.”
“Great. Would you prefer morning, afternoon, or evening?”
I hesitate.
“We seek to provide our participants with flexibility. A lot of them work full- or part-time or pursue their studies.”
“Of course. Is anything available today?”
“We have a session starting at nine thirty. Should I pencil you in?”
“Yes.”
“Terrific.” Does she have a thesaurus laid out in front of her with all the synonyms for fantastic in a neat column? “Nine fifteen, come to the front desk. Do you have the address?”
“Yeah. Yes. I do, thank you.”
“Great. See you later today, Ms.…”
I realize it’s a prompt when the silence lingers. “Addison. DeVoort.” I don’t know why I give Milt’s last name. Better than blurting out my own.
“See you later, Ms. DeVoort.”
She hangs up. I put the phone back on the charger and start the engine.
Looks like I’ll have to tough it out for a couple of hours. I take my hand off the steering wheel to reach into my pocket for the millionth time and let my fingertips brush against the cool enamel of the keychain. As always, its presence reassures me.
* * *
I get to the Access Research Center jittery with a too-much-coffee, too-little-sleep buzz that makes everything look just one degree south of real. I drive past the place twice because it turns out it’s housed on the third floor of an office building, no logo in sight. Only the list by the intercom indicates ARC, suite 300.
It looks like a dentist’s office. A receptionist looks up from a Kindle long enough to point me to a windowless space that’s a cross between a boardroom and a waiting room, where I take a seat at the long plastic table along with two others already waiting. One is an indifferent-looking Asian woman who’s reading a newspaper in a foreign language, the other, a guy who can’t be too long out of his teens. He looks as jittery as me but possibly not for the same reasons. Maybe it’s the unflattering halogen lighting but the pocks that pepper his cheeks look too angry to be from regular acne, and his whole look has an air of unhealthiness. I bet he’s going to get turned away, although who knows?
Then a woman with jowls and aggressively orange hair, clad in a white coat over her skirt and sweater, comes in and hands out pamphlets. I turn mine over: It’s the list of their available studies. She goes on and on, chipper, about how we will all pass individual interviews to assess the state of our health and what study will be best suited for our unique selves. Those are the words she uses. She doesn’t bat an eye when the guy asks how much and when we get paid. She tells him in the same polite, upbeat manner that it depends on the study, that all compensation is at the end of the trial, and that she has to inform us that due to a recent change in regulations, the compensation is no longer available in cash, only check or direct deposit.
He scoffs, scowls, and then, with a resigned air, asks what the best-paying study is. She repeats the line about our unique selves and our health conditions. He mutters something inappropriate under his breath, just loud enough for me to overhear, and slumps in his chair.
The orange-haired lady disappears, only to reappear minutes later and call the Asian woman into the office through the set of doors on the other end of the room. They’re glass, but they’re tinted white. Once they close, I can only see her silhouette behind them, growing blurrier and blurrier till she’s gone.
It’s me and the guy now. Can’t say I’m supercomfortable with the setup, and the large and obvious surveillance camera in the opposite corner makes me even more edgy. The AC is invisible and silent, but it pumps arctic air into the room, so cold I half expect to see my breath condense. I wish I’d worn long sleeves. The guy is blatantly checking me out now. Not really checking me out, I realize after a sideways glance, as much as inspecting my bare arms and neck. Finally, after a few minutes of this, he speaks up.
“Is that, like, some kind of psoriasis or some shit?”
I turn to face him, tempted to tell him that no, it’s a rare and highly contagious skin disease that’s airborne. Instead, I press my lips together politely and shake my head. He informs me that “it looks really messed up,” but before things can escalate, orange lady returns and calls him in.
Blissful loneliness. I let myself slouch, turning my attention to the brochure in front of me. I unfold it to see stock photos of smiling men and women of all ethnicities, with clean blue font describing available studies. I can’t help but imagine my brother in this very room, waiting for his turn. Was this a last stop for him? Did he feel hopeless, resigned? He can’t have had many other options. The court order forbade him from ever getting in touch with me, even after he got out of prison, with no one waiting for him, with no place to go. And I can’t imagine the job offers were piling up for a convict with minimal education. He was smart at school, or at least smart enough to get away with cheating for better grades. Did he feel like his life had slipped away from him?
Or was taken from him.
I inspect the brochure, trying to figure out which study he would have chosen. Asthma. Migraines. There are two different studies for psoriasis treatment, and both pay quite well—not that it excuses the jerk for staring at me earlier. There’s about fifteen total, but it’s the last one that catches my eye.
Males 18–30, with a history of psychosis, for trials of new medication. There aren’t any more details, just a short list of eligibility criteria.
My heart starts to beat faster. I look around but there’s no one; the orange-haired lady and the other two candidates are still gone. I let myself imagine them being whisked away to some underground lab from which they’ll never emerge, like something out of a B-grade sci-fi film.
I scan the brochure again, but the more I do, the more certain I become. I keep coming back to that one listing. It’s not certainty—not with so little to go on—but it’s also more than just a suspicio
n. Maybe a gut instinct. Or maybe…maybe I just know my brother well enough.
“DeVoort? Addison DeVoort?”
My head snaps up, and my spine tingles, like I got caught doing something bad. The orange-haired woman motions for me to come forward.
“Hold on.” My voice has a tremor in it but I guess it’s normal for first-time jitters. “What exactly are they going to do to me in there?” I smile nervously, trying to play it off as a joke.
“Just some health-related questions,” she answers rather coldly. “But first, you’re going to have to come with me, okay?”
“There’s a study that interests me,” I say.
“In due time. First, the evaluation,” she drones.
“It’s the last one. Males eighteen to thirty, psychosis medication.”
Her brows knit. “Follow me, please.”
I get up and make a step toward her. Then I realize she’s not taking me through the white-glass doors but back the way I came, into the lobby.
“Miss,” she says, a menacing edge to her voice, “come with me. Immediately.”
“What medication is it?” I snap. “What do you give these people?”
She shakes her head, her lips pursed. In the same moment, two security guards shoulder their way past her into the room and walk toward me in a determined step.
“You have to leave now, ma’am,” says the older (and taller) of the two.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are.” He reaches to grab my arm but I pull away just in time. Only to realize the other one is behind me, and he seizes my other arm just below the shoulder. I weakly try to twist out of his grip.
“I don’t know what you are, press, some kind of blogger…” The woman is practically spitting. “But you can’t be here, or we’re calling the police.”
“I’m not a blogger,” I snarl. “I’m—”
I cut myself off just in time. Outing myself is the last thing I need—I have to maintain plausible deniability to the last.
“Fine,” I snap. “Fine. I’m leaving. You can let go of me now.”
