by Wendy Walker
Pearson looked at Conway for a signal.
Conway gave it. “Look—we don’t have a warrant for his apartment. We don’t even have probable cause for a warrant. We can knock, ask a few polite questions, but that’s it.”
Rosie felt her eyes widen. The air stung when it hit them. Her mouth was bone-dry. Her head throbbing. And inside her chest was the weight of a scream desperate to come out.
She took two steps to the door and pounded her fist.
“Laura!” she yelled. “Laura!”
Conway was now beside her. “That’s enough,” he said. He moved in front of her, blocking her from the door.
“Mr. Rittle,” he said as he knocked firmly. “It’s the police. We just have a few questions.”
Silence descended across the hallway. Conway pressed his ear to the door, standing just beside it. He motioned for Pearson to get Rosie, which she did. And Rosie realized they were keeping clear in case someone fired a weapon from inside.
Conway knocked again.
Still, no answer. Not a sound.
“Knock it down!” Rosie said, looking back and forth between the officers and Gabe. “What is wrong with all of you? Laura could be inside!”
Conway backed away from the door. “We don’t have a warrant. We aren’t knocking down any doors.”
Rosie looked at Gabe now, desperate for help. They never should have called the police. If they were alone, Gabe would find a way inside that door. She knew he would.
Pearson got a text. “Hold on a second,” she said to them as she read it. “Okay—the apartment is leased to a company. Someone is reaching out to them to find out who lives here.”
“A company? What kind of company?” Rosie asked.
“It’s an LLC. Probably a real estate holding company.”
They were all trying to calm Rosie down. But she didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to get into that apartment.
Gabe explained it to her. “People do that all the time, Rosie. For tax reasons, to limit liability. It costs nothing to start an LLC.”
“He did it to hide. I know it! He’s hiding it from his wife. Can’t we search the names associated with the LLC?”
“We’re doing that as well,” Pearson said.
Rosie looked back to the door of apartment 2L. They were trying to distract her with all of these things they were doing, but really they weren’t doing anything but stalling.
“What about the manager?” Rosie asked. “Maybe he’ll let us in! Wouldn’t he have a key?”
“Mrs. Ferro, that’s the same as breaking the door down. We don’t have probable cause to do that. Once we get the name of the party living here, and if we can verify that your sister went on a date with him Thursday night, then we can apply for a warrant.”
“And how long will that take? Days? A week? My sister has been missing since Thursday!”
Pearson glanced at Conway, who nodded.
“What?” Rosie asked. They were holding something back.
“We got the phone records. They came in this morning. We called your house and told your husband.…”
“I’ve been out all morning—he didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you call me on my cell phone?” Rosie couldn’t believe that Joe would keep that from her. But, then again, she hadn’t been taking his calls.
“We assumed he would tell you. He didn’t mention you were out. Where were you?” Conway asked.
Rosie tried, but she couldn’t steady herself. Nothing was making sense anymore.
“I was driving around, looking for my sister,” she lied. Gabe shot her a look, but she ignored it. She was doing exactly that—driving and searching for Laura. They didn’t ask where. “What did you find? On her phone…”
“The last few calls were from a number registered to a business. A financial investment firm in New York,” Pearson answered.
“Can you get the name of the employee? Jesus—don’t you see the connection? The apartment is leased under an LLC. The phone is registered to a business in New York. This guy does not want to be traced. He doesn’t want to be found!”
“We’re now looking into both companies. Trying to find the right people to give us that information.”
“Don’t tell me—you have to wait until Monday, right? No need to bother anyone on the weekend. After all, it’s only been a day and a half. She’s probably just run off with him for the weekend, right? Too afraid to tell her crazy sister?”
Gabe was the one who answered. “Rosie—that’s not true. These things take time to track down.”
“What about other numbers on her phone?”
Pearson took out her phone again and pulled up the scanned record.
“Here—you tell us,” Pearson said, handing her the phone.
Rosie grabbed it and started to scan the numbers. She mumbled her thoughts as she began to recognize them. 917–28 … that’s her old work cell phone … 212–23 … that’s the firm’s landline … Scrolling more, reading with bleary eyes … 203–35 …
She stopped suddenly, staring at that last number. Then she began counting. Scrolling and counting the number of times she saw those digits—203–35 …
“Can you get the text messages that were written?” she asked.
“We should have them later this morning. Is there a number you recognize?” Conway asked.
All heads turned when a door opened. It was 2M, right beside Edward Rittle’s.
A middle-aged woman with a small dog emerged, stopping short when she saw the police officers.
“What’s going on out here?” she asked.
Conway smiled politely. “Everything’s fine. Do you know the tenants in 2L?” he asked.
“Eddie? Yeah. I know him,” she said, rolling her eyes. But then her face grew concerned. “Why? Is he in trouble?” she asked.
“No. We’re just trying to find someone he might know.”
“A woman, right?”
Rosie was about to spring into action, but Gabe held her back, grabbing both shoulders.
“Thursday night?” The woman seemed to know the routine.
Pearson looked at Conway, but he was focused on the neighbor now.
“Yes. It would have been Thursday night. Did you see anyone?”
“See? No. I didn’t see them. But I heard them. I hear them every Thursday.” She said this with amusement. “If you’re looking for him, though, he’s not here. He’s never here on the weekends. Something about his job—I think he works here but lives somewhere else. Comes and goes during the week. I have a key—I bring up his mail from the box downstairs. It’s mostly junk, but it fills up fast in those small boxes and then the manager gets pissed off.”
Rosie shuddered—this was him! It had to be. Thursday nights. Women.
“Can you open it?” Rosie asked.
Conway jumped in before the woman could answer. “That won’t be necessary.…”
But the woman was already walking toward 2L, looking through the keys on her chain.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “He’s not home. It’s Saturday.”
Now Gabe, finally, coming to the rescue. “It’s okay if we go in,” he said to the officers. “He gave consent by giving his key. We’re not the police.…”
Rosie broke free of his hold and rushed to stand behind the neighbor as she slid the key into the lock.
Pearson and Conway didn’t move. There was nothing they could do to stop her, or Gabe, from entering that apartment.
The door opened. The neighbor walked in, bent down to pick up a few fliers that had been slid under the door.
But Rosie was already in front of her. Calling her sister’s name. “Laura!”
Gabe was there now. “Can we look around a little?” he asked the neighbor.
Rosie could sense that the neighbor was starting to question her decision to let them in—starting to see that this was not about finding a friend of her neighbor.
“Just a little—and quickly, okay?” she said. She sounded nervous.
“Laura!” Rosie raced into the living room, spinning around in a circle. Then to the bedroom, the bathroom, the closets, opening doors, calling out the name.
“Laura!”
Gabe stood quietly in the foyer with the neighbor and her dog. Rosie stared at them as the information settled into her bones. This had been everything—finding the women who knew this man. Finding out where he lived. And now, here she was—in the place where her sister must have been, and maybe just hours before. But there was nothing. No signs of her sister. No signs of a struggle. Not even a glass in the sink.
“The cleaning service comes on Fridays,” the woman said. “Do you want the name?”
Gabe said something. The woman said something back. She pulled out her phone. He pulled out his phone. But none of it mattered. If the cleaning people had seen something wrong, they would have called the police. And if they didn’t think what they found was wrong, they would have cleaned it up and erased it forever. All evidence of her sister—gone.
“Gabe!” Rosie cried out. She could feel the tears sting her dry skin.
The woman stood against the open door. “I think I should lock it up,” she said. “I have Eddie’s number. I can call him for you.…”
Gabe walked the few steps to Rosie and pulled her in tight. “It’s okay,” he said. “This is good news. Nothing happened here—look. Nothing happened.…”
Rosie looked up and found his eyes. “There was a number,” she said in a whisper. “On the list … calls and texts going back weeks. There are so many of them.…”
“What number?” Gabe asked.
But she choked on the answer.
“Rosie! What number is it?” he asked again.
“Joe’s—it’s Joe’s number.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Laura. Session Number Twelve. Two Months Ago. New York City.
Dr. Brody: Calm down, Laura. I’ve never seen you like this.…
Laura: No! You need to tell me! Right now! Right this second!
Dr. Brody: It’s complicated. I wanted you to be ready to understand.…
Laura: We’re past that, Kevin. I need to know. Just tell me! Stop treating me like a patient.
Dr. Brody: Laura … that’s not fair.
Laura: You said I do this to myself—to prove a point. You said I would come to know what that meant, what fucking point I’m always trying to prove.…
Dr. Brody: Okay, just calm down. You’re distraught. What’s brought this on?
Laura: Just. Tell. Me!
Dr. Brody: Fine. You want to know what point you’re always trying prove to yourself, with scores of men who will never love you, who probably can’t love anyone, and why you throw yourself at them and let them into your mind and your heart and your body…?
Laura: Yes, tell me why I do all of those disgusting, reprehensible things that you obviously think are unworthy of your pristine self-awareness!
Dr. Brody: You are unlovable!
Laura: What?
Dr. Brody: The point you try to prove to yourself over and over so you can feel as shitty as you have your whole life … so you can be sure to repeat the past until you’re dead and buried, never changing, never moving forward. Laura Lochner, men don’t love you in spite of everything you give them because you are unlovable. Are you happy now? Now that you know?
Laura: Jesus Christ, Kevin.
Dr. Brody: But it’s not true. It’s never been true. That’s what I wanted you to understand! That this truth you keep trying to prove over and over is a lie. You are lovable. And I love you, Laura. I love you.
Laura: Kevin …
Dr. Brody: Tell me what happened. Tell me why you’re so upset.
Laura: I can’t. I promised.
Dr. Brody: Whom did you promise?
Laura: Joe. I promised Joe. My sister’s husband.
THIRTY-FIVE
Laura. The Night Before. Friday, 1 a.m. Branston, CT.
Jonathan eats pizza. He eats it standing at the kitchen counter, without a plate or a napkin. He found a beer in the back of the fridge and he split it in two. A glass for me, and what was left in the bottle for him.
He eats the pizza and drinks the beer like he hasn’t a care in the world beyond hunger. He groans with satisfaction.
“Oh my God,” he says. “What is it about late-night pizza?”
I’ve joined him on the other side of the counter, but I can’t manage to eat because I’ve already downed a plateful of anxiety.
I drink the beer.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks at me and shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll finish the leftovers tomorrow.”
“Not about the pizza. About everything else.” I think about the “everything else” as I say the words, and a shudder rolls through my body.
Everything else: (a) freaking out in his car and running through the park; (b) revealing my dark, twisted past; (c) seducing him; (d) freaking out in his kitchen; and (e) accusing him of numerous crimes he didn’t commit.
He looks at me with a wry smile this time, and I can’t stand how cute he is. His shirt hangs loosely now, sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone at the top. His hair is disheveled from my hands, my fingers running through it. And I want to do it again. Touch his hair. Touch his chest, his back, his face. I have spun around in circles as conclusions have come and gone, pulling me in sharp turns. It’s made me dizzy. It’s made me spent. I want to fall into his arms and let it all pour out of me until I’m fast asleep. Finally, my mind at rest.
“I kind of liked the everything else,” he says between bites. “Some of it more than the rest, but that’s the way life is, right?”
It’s hard for me to believe in his kindness. But I do. I force it down my throat and swallow it because I will not repeat the past. Not anymore. And because I can’t make one more turn.
“I probably started dating again too soon,” I say. This is now damage control. If he opened me up and saw what was inside my head, he would shove me out the door and turn the bolts.
“After the bad breakup?” he asks.
I nod yes, but then also no. “It’s more than that. I learned some things over the summer. About myself and my childhood. Things that I’m still sorting out.”
He drops a piece of crust into the box and picks up a fresh slice. “Well, since this is technically our second date, let’s hear it. All of it,” he says. “Tell me what you learned this summer that you can’t sort out.”
I lean against the counter, bare feet planted firmly on the linoleum floor.
“It’s about my father. And my mother, really.”
“You said your father cheated and then left all of you for another woman. You haven’t seen him for sixteen years, right?”
“We were supposed to go for weekends. Up to Boston, twice a month. Rosie went until she was seventeen, but I refused. I could see it made my mother happy when I did, and Dick never pushed it. At least, that’s what I was told. Your father said you can go if you want, but you don’t have to. I think it would have been different if Rosie had refused.”
“Why? Did he love her more?”
I look at him now with profound curiosity. It’s such a horrible question, and yet also dead-on. I like how smart Jonathan is, and how honest. Yes, I think. He is honest.
He offered to show me, to find himself on the Internet, to pull up emails. But I’ve done enough damage tonight. I’ll have time tomorrow—I’ll have all day because Rosie will wake me up, sneaking in my room to make sure I’m all right, the door squeaking, the floor creaking. She can’t help herself.
“Yes,” I answer just as boldly. “He loved her more. I’ve just recently been able to admit it. I had to be shown. I had to have the evidence laid out before me.”
I tell him then about the picture I found in a box my mother sent me when she moved to California. It has all of my old junk from my room—plastic trophies and medals, art projects, letters I wrote home from summer camp. And pictures.
“I made it my screen saver,” I tell him.
He stops eating and leans against the counter next to me. “Wait—you took the one photo from that box where you can actually see the sadness on your face—your little childhood face, sad because you knew your father loved your sister more—and you put it in a place where you had to look at it every day?”
I laugh a little because he’s right. It is absurd. Except that it also makes perfect sense.
“I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to see that face, looking at my father behind the camera, and know beyond any doubt that it lives inside me.”
“That’s horrible,” he says. “It’s so sad. I’m sorry, Laura. Really—I can’t imagine thinking that my parents didn’t love me. Even when my sister and I complain about the terrible things they did as parents…”
“Was your mother late to pick you up from soccer practice?”
“All the time! How did you know?”
We both smile now.
“But even when we complain about those things, there’s never a question about whether they loved us.”
I think to myself how normal that must be. How most adults in our world—the world of the privileged—take this for granted. And I realize how hard it is for me to imagine it.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. “And I’m happy for Rosie.”
I go on then, with these things I learned from Dr. Brody. How I choose men who would never love me so I could repeat the past. Craving that feeling that was so familiar. Craving the chance to finally be enough, enough to fix him and make him love me. How I did that with Mitch Adler.
It struck me one day in the West Hotel, lying in bed with Dr. Brody, Kevin, after making love. Feeling safe and protected. We spoke of these things, and I suddenly realized that all of these pieces fell into place. That Mitch was dead because they did.
I don’t tell Jonathan about Dr. Brody or how I came to understand all of these things about myself.
And I don’t tell him about Joe and the secret we now share.
I only say that I figured it out and that I now feel responsible for Mitch. He wouldn’t have been in that car with me if I had done what any normal girl would have done. If I had told him to go straight to hell when we were kissing behind a tree.
