Necessary People

by Anna Pitoniak

  Next was the gun. I’d wiped it clean of fingerprints, and kept it wrapped in a scarf. Even holding it for just a moment, cold and heavy and alien, gave me a zip of fear. The idea of Stella actually using it seemed ludicrous. But who knew what she was capable of? The weekend could have easily taken a different turn. Dropping it into the harbor was a relief.

  There was one thing left. The jewelry in my pocket was recognizable by touch: the twin nubs of the diamond earrings, the railroad track of the bracelet, the knobbly ring. I had taken to wearing the ring when I was alone in the apartment. It fit perfectly, sliding snugly over my knuckle. I’d toyed with the idea of hiding the ring somewhere secure, keeping it for a while. I loved that ring. I would never in my life be able to afford something so beautiful. The thought of it disappearing forever into the muck of New York harbor made me melancholy.

  But this was how people got caught—they were too sentimental. They let their desires get the better of them. I had learned the danger of beautiful things. There would be no loose threads in this story. My fist unfurled, and the jewelry vanished into the black water.

  Detective Fazio hadn’t changed in the past three years. Tall and lean, threadbare across the scalp, a face sagging from too many late nights. Anne summoned him to the house on Sunday afternoon. Despite her threats to cancel their annual donation to the police memorial fund, the Bradley money and influence kept flowing, and the detective arrived promptly at 1 p.m.

  As the five of us settled in the living room, Fazio looked at me. “You’re the friend, aren’t you? You were here last time?”

  “Yes. I live with Stella.” I chose my verb tense carefully.

  “She was the last person to see our daughter,” Anne said. “And that was a week ago. Over a week ago. We haven’t heard anything since.”

  “There’s been nothing at all?” The detective looked at Thomas as he spoke. “No texts to other friends? No updates on social media?”

  “Nothing,” Thomas said.

  “Can’t you track her cell phone?” Anne said. “Wouldn’t that show her location?”

  “Mrs. Bradley, I should be clear. I’m just here to have a conversation with you. But if your daughter truly is missing, and the last place she was seen was in Maine, the folks up there have jurisdiction. Have you contacted the local police?”

  Anne frowned. “No.”

  “You should call them. We’ll debrief the sheriff, and he can take it from there.”

  “I was hoping”—Anne glanced at Thomas—“we were hoping that you might remain in charge of this investigation. The house in Maine is in a very small town. They don’t have the same resources that we do here.”

  Fazio’s smile was more like a grimace. “That might be…difficult.”

  “He’s right, Mom,” Oliver said. “Matters of jurisdiction are cut-and-dried in cases like this. The Rye Police Department doesn’t have any standing.”

  “Oliver, please,” Anne said.

  “I’m just saying, there isn’t—”

  “Oliver!” Anne snapped. “For God’s sake. This isn’t one of your law school seminars. This is your sister we’re talking about.”

  “Okay, everyone, let’s take a moment.” Fazio took out his notebook and pen. Like last time, this had a calming effect on Anne. I wondered if Fazio ever wrote anything in that notebook, or if it was just filled with scribbles and doodles, enough to make the wealthy taxpayers of Westchester County feel they were getting their proper due.

  Fazio asked me to tell him what had happened that weekend. Anne nodded along to my story. She seemed comforted by the familiarity, like a movie she had memorized.

  “And was this typical of your daughter,” Fazio asked, turning to Thomas and Anne. “To get this upset about a boyfriend?”

  “She could be…dramatic, at times,” Anne said. “But no. She never seemed to take her boyfriends very seriously.”

  “But she’s done this before,” Fazio said. “Like that Christmas, when she—”

  “This is different,” Anne snapped.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Bradley, it’s just that—”

  “Don’t apologize, Detective,” Thomas said, shooting a look at his wife. “You’re right. And the last thing we have from her is this e-mail, which states plainly that she wanted to take some time to herself.”

  “She sent an e-mail?” Fazio said, jotting down a note.

  “Not to us,” Thomas said. “To Ginny Grass. The president of KCN.”

  “Stella’s boss,” Anne added, impatient with Fazio’s questioning look. “And a close family friend. She’s always taken such good care of our daughter.”

  “Could I see the e-mail?” Fazio asked.

  As Thomas scrolled through his phone, Anne leaned forward. “But this doesn’t change anything, Detective. That e-mail doesn’t sound like Stella.”

  Fazio was now peering at the phone. “It’s very short,” he said.

  “I can tell,” Anne said. “Our daughter didn’t write that.”

  I pressed my palms, tacky with sweat, against my jeans. A tiny tremble in my legs. I’d known this was a possibility, that even though I could mimic Stella’s voice, I wasn’t perfect enough to fool her own mother.

  “But, Mom,” Oliver said. “That’s the whole point. Stella wasn’t acting like herself last weekend. Right, Violet?”

  I took a deep breath. “Right,” I said.

  “This boyfriend,” Fazio said. “He was her coworker, correct? James Richter?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Richter. And with Ms. Grass, too.”

  Thomas furrowed his brow. “You don’t suspect them of anything?”

  Fazio closed his notebook. “I’d like to speak with anyone who was in touch with Stella last weekend.”

  After Detective Fazio left, Oliver and I helped ourselves to lunch. The Bradleys’ housekeeper kept the refrigerator well stocked: neatly washed and cut fruit, pasta salad, roasted vegetables, cold-brewed iced tea, prosciutto-and-mozzarella sandwiches on hard Italian rolls. The food replenished itself like magic. The first time Stella and I went grocery shopping together, we left the store and she took a big bite from an apple we’d just bought.

  “Don’t you want to wash that first?” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” she said, her mouth full.

  “That apple. It’s covered in chemicals.”

  She raised an eyebrow and took another bite. “Is this one of your weird Florida things? I’ve literally never heard of anyone doing that.”

  There was a bowl of apples on the kitchen counter. I thought of Stella as I picked one up. The Bradleys always had good apples, carefully selected and washed ahead of time. Somehow they were never mealy or bruised. This one was particularly perfect: the skin tight as a drum, the flesh tart and crisp. Maybe that accounted for the way Stella ate apples—comprehensively, even the waxy casing of the core, everything except for the stem and the seeds. Although if there wasn’t a garbage can handy, she’d eat that, too.

  The trip wires of the past week were proving to be strange things. The memory of how Stella ate apples; the absence of her dishes in the kitchen sink; the gradually fading smell of her clove cigarettes from the living room. I was glad to be free of the cruel and sadistic person Stella had become, the way she warped the energy at work and at home, but I hadn’t accounted for the subtler ways her presence filled the edges of my life. It was calmer and easier without her. It was also lonelier.

  “Do you want any of this?” Oliver said, gesturing at a container of broccoli slaw.

  “I’m fine.” I shook my head. “Not that hungry.”

  “Are you okay?” He squinted at me. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m starting to worry,” I said. The words were false, but the nausea was real.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Oliver said. “I think she’s trying to punish Jamie. She wants everyone to make a big fuss, and then she’ll say it was his fault, and he’ll f
eel awful about it. This is a game to her. It always has been.”

  “That would be pretty extreme, even for Stella.”

  “I might be wrong. In which case I’m a jerk for saying what I just said. But you’ll keep it between us, right?”

  I managed to smile. “Do you mind dropping me at the train station on your way back?”

  Oliver smiled back. “Why don’t you just drive back into the city with me?”

  “I can give you a ride down to the Village,” Oliver said, as we crossed the Triborough and the Manhattan skyline came into view against the dark evening sky.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “I’ll just take the subway downtown.”

  “Please,” Oliver said. He drove past the exit on the FDR that would have delivered him to the Upper East Side, where he lived. “It’s nothing.”

  “And you know,” he added, after a few moments of silence. “I’ve never even seen your apartment. Stella never once invited me over. Crazy, right? My own sister.”

  “Oh,” I said. Oliver glanced at me, then his eyes flicked back to the road. There was a long pause. “I mean, do you want to see it?”

  “I’d love to.” He smiled.

  I had imagined Oliver’s car idling in front of our building while he took a brief tour. But there was a parking spot open on our street, and his Audi sedan fit neatly into the space. He locked the car with a satisfied beep. It seemed he was planning to stay a while.

  “Wow,” Oliver said. As I turned the lamps on, he did a lap around the living room. He ran his hands across the back of the couch and the top of the mantel, squeezed the pillows, tested the springiness of the armchairs. He was like a lion in a nature documentary, pacing his territory and sniffing out intruders. “Did my mom do the decorating?” Oliver said. “This has Anne written all over it.”

  “She gets the credit,” I said.

  “When I moved into my place a few years ago, I asked her to help pick things out. You know me, I’m terrible at that stuff.” He shrugged and laughed. I laughed weakly, too, although I didn’t know Oliver nearly well enough to possess that knowledge. “But she said no. She said that was the kind of thing that a girlfriend would want to do, in the future. You know, when I finally got one.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “But for Stella, she’d move heaven and earth.” He rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen. “My perfect little sister. Look. This is our grandmother’s china. And has Stella ever used this?”

  “Actually, yes. She likes it for her toast in the morning.”

  “Well, still.” Oliver stared covetously at the delicately patterned plate, as if it were a gold medal that a competitor was letting him look at but not keep. “It’s obvious who the favorite is.”

  “No one thinks she’s perfect,” I said. “And they love you just as much, Oliver.”

  “They love us in different ways. I hold up my end of the bargain. I work hard and I don’t embarrass them. And who wants to be loved for that?” Oliver stopped, surveying the doors that lined the hallway. “Which one is her bedroom?”

  “On the left,” I said. It was almost too late by the time I remembered—he already had his hand on the doorknob, was already twisting it open. “Oliver!” I shouted.

  He jumped and spun around. “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  Behind him, in the bedroom, glaring evidence stood out: the slept-in bed, the clothing piled on the armchair, the damp towel on the bathroom door. I knew how bizarre and inappropriate this would look, my sleeping in Stella’s room for the past week. It was just that her room was so much bigger and nicer than mine. It seemed a waste for it to remain empty.

  “Um,” I said. “I just remembered. I want to show you this thing in my room.”

  My bedroom was more like that of a girl who had been missing for a week: airless, pristine, spooky. I looked for something plausible to show Oliver—but what, what? I had nothing worth remarking upon.

  “Ah,” Oliver said. “Etchings, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “You had some etchings you wanted to show me. I get it.”

  He sat down on the bed and leaned back on his elbows, taking in the cheap furniture and the bare walls. “This is more my speed, anyway,” he said. “This is kind of what my apartment looks like. You should come see it sometime.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

  Was it possible that I was the stupidest person in the world? Yes, it was entirely possible. Why else would I have practically dragged Oliver to my boring bedroom, were it not because I wanted to have sex with him? He was waiting patiently for me to sit down on the bed so that the obvious part could begin. Shit, I thought. Shit, shit.

  Oliver laughed. He had noticed my crossed arms, the tight expression on my face. “It’s okay. I get it. It is kind of weird, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “That she’s not here, and it’s just the two of us.” Oliver stood up from the bed. For a moment, I panicked. Was he going to come closer? Initiate what he thought I was too shy to initiate myself? But instead he said, “I’ll get going. It’s been a long day.”

  I walked him out. As he was waiting for the elevator, buttoning his coat and wrapping a scarf around his neck, he smiled at me. When Stella and Oliver stood side by side, you couldn’t help but notice the differences between them. But with Stella gone, the similarities were more pronounced. The blond hair, the confident gaze, the lanky height. The way he talked to Detective Fazio, the way he leaned back on my bed: I recognized that easy, satisfied sense that everything will work out as it should. That perfectly bred poise.

  The idea wasn’t even half formed. But it was enough to stir up a hot feeling of shame, remembering what she said on the boat that night. You’ve attached to my family like a leech. Stella would have hated this. I could imagine the disgust on her face. My awful brother? What could you possibly see in him?

  Oliver stepped inside the elevator. As the doors started to close, he looked up at me. He stuck out a hand, and the doors slid back open.

  “How about dinner sometime?” he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  stella was officially declared a missing person on Monday morning. The police in Maine examined the house and noted the obvious clues. Stella’s car was still there, the keys sitting on the kitchen counter. Her wallet and phone were gone. Many of the lights had been left on, but the door was locked, and there was no evidence of forced entry. There was an empty slip in the boathouse, and Thomas confirmed that the speedboat was missing. He also confirmed that the contents of the safe were missing: the jewelry, and the gun.

  Oliver and I drove up to Maine on Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving. It was late afternoon by the time we arrived. I was hoping for a chance to shower and change after the long car ride, but there was a detective waiting in the living room.

  “Violet, honey?” Anne said. “This nice man needs to speak with you.”

  “Oh—sure,” I said. The story was an easy routine by now. “Of course.”

  The detective led me to a small study, considerably shabbier than the rest of the house. Overstuffed bookshelves, boats in glass bottles, stacks of magazines and papers, and a dark leather couch, where I sat while the detective pulled over a chair from the desk.

  He was short and stocky, built like a high school football player. He cleared his throat. “Now, Miss Trapp. You were the last person to see Stella.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Saturday night. A week and a half ago.”

  “Can you walk me through the weekend?”

  I described it to him in detail, as I had for Detective Fazio a few days earlier. At the end of it, he frowned. “So there was no one else at the house? Just the two of you?”

  “Just the two of us.”

  “Was Stella with you the entire weekend? Did she ever go out?”

  “Um,” I said. “She went out for a while on Saturday morning. She took the car.”

  “She didn’t say where she was going?” I shook my he
ad. The detective extracted a piece of paper from his folder. “Do you recognize this number?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Two-oh-seven. Isn’t that the local area code?”

  “Stella was texting and calling this person all weekend. This was the last number she called on Saturday night. Several times, right around ten thirty. We traced the number back to a burner phone. Sold just a month ago, from a convenience store.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “We found cocaine in her glove box, and marijuana in the kitchen. Do you know whether she brought that up with her from New York?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But she’s a regular drug user?”

  “I mean, she’s twenty-six years old. She goes out. She likes to have fun.” I paused, and then decided to plunge forward. “You’re guessing that this burner phone was, what, a dealer?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “She had friends in the area. People she’d met during the summers. I think there was a guy she got coke from. I never knew his name.”

  He nodded, took a few notes. “No one thinks about it in these ritzy summer towns, but it’s a big problem around here,” he said. “Opioids and heroin, especially.”

  “Stella never did anything like that,” I said. “Except, wait. This guy she was dating, he had knee surgery, and gave her his leftover OxyContin. That was a while ago, though.”

  “Was this boyfriend”—he checked his papers—“James Richter?”

  “Oh, no, no. This was several years ago.”

  “So this has been going on for a long time.” He sounded satisfied by his own observation. “Let me ask you about the safe upstairs. There were a few items missing.”

  “I heard. Jewelry and a gun, right?”

  “Why do you think Stella took the gun?”

  “How do you know she took it?” I said. “What if someone else broke into the house and took the gun and, I don’t know—kidnapped her?”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry,” the detective said. “No damage to the safe. And that’s a top-of-the-line model. You can’t get it open without the combination.”