Stay With Me (12 page)

The man turned fast, started heading up the sidewalk, shoes clicking. Morasco followed. “Hello,” he said. “Sir? I need to ask you a few questions.”

The man kept walking, as though he had an appointment to make. He was a couple of inches taller than Morasco, and broad. A big man. He wore a long, dark coat.

“You and I are the only people on the street,” Morasco said. “How long are we going to keep this up?”

The man stumbled a little. His hands were straight out at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching.

“You know who I am,” said Morasco. “You saw me back there.”

The man started to slow.

“Police. Halt.” Morasco didn’t shout it. He didn’t have to—it was that quiet. A car buzzed by—Honor Mom’s Lexus, the only car on the street.

The man stopped, turned around. “Yeah?” he said.

The light from a streetlamp hit the side of his face—clean shaven but wet with sweat. His eyes were half closed, the mouth slack.
Pills
, Morasco thought. He felt the weight of his gun at his shoulder holster. “Can you please put your hands up where I can see them?”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I want to see your hands.”

The man slowly raised his hands. “I wasn’t doing anything,” he said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Morasco leveled his gaze at him. He slipped his hand beneath his coat, touched the .45 in his shoulder holster, making sure the guy noticed.

“It’s okay,” the guy said. “Takeiteasyofficer.” The words slurred out of his mouth, bumping into each other. From where he was standing, Morasco detected an acrid, BO smell. Beads of sweat swelled on his upper lip, rolled down his face. “It’s okay,” he said again. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I was just walking.”

“Have you seen a young girl around here? Thirteen years old? Blonde hair?”

“I haven’t seen any girls.”

Morasco heard something, a sound coming out of the guy’s coat. Doorbell chimes.

The guy started to shake. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

Morasco rested his hand on the .45. “Keep them up,” he said. He moved closer. The chimes echoed on the quiet street. “Ring tone?” he said.

The smell was worse close up. Under the coat he wore a white button-down shirt, the collar dark with sweat. His eyes were wide open now, the irises huge, eclipsing the pupils. “I don’t know, man.”

Morasco slipped his hand into the guy’s coat pocket, pulled out the slim thing as it chimed.

The phone’s case was encrusted with pink glitter.

“This is your phone?” he said.

“Yeah.”

The hell it is
. Morasco turned over the chiming phone, looked at the caller ID screen: “Mom,” it said. Next to the word was Brenna’s picture.

Morasco froze. Anger burned through him, bubbled in his veins. “
Where is she?
” he shouted. “
Where is Maya?
”

It happened as though in slow motion: the sweating man turning around and moving, knocking the phone out of Morasco’s hand, the phone flying into the gutter, splashing into a puddle from the previous night’s rain, the ring dying along with it. Then Cavanaugh and Cerulli running across the street, the wet crash of their shoes on the wet pavement, another squad car arriving, siren blaring, screeching to a stop.

And the asshole was running now, full-on racing up the street, faster than any drugged man should know how to run, big legs powering forward, coat flapping behind him.

“What’s going on?” said Danny Cavanaugh, as Cerulli bent to scoop up the ruined phone and Morasco took off after the running man. His feet thudded on the sidewalk, he pushed hard, but the black coat was that much farther up the block, then crossing the street . . .

“Stop!” Morasco shouted, the word a rasp.

The man was slowing, drugs and ill health kicking in, and still Morasco strained forward, gaining on him, close enough now to smell his sweat.

The man faltered, slowed more. Stopped. Morasco could hear his breathing now, hard and wet.

“Turn around!” Morasco’s voice echoed up the dark street.

His whole body moved with each breath, shook with it.

Morasco kept his hand on his .45. “Turn around,” he said. “Put your hands up.”

The man turned. He reached under his coat.

“Put your hands up!” Cavanaugh shouted.

The man grabbed something and pulled it out, his fist clamped around it . . .

“Drop it!”

Maya, just a kid.

“Put it down!” Cerulli said.

Morasco heard a loud crack. And then the freak was spinning again, spinning to run, he thought for a split second, but then he was falling, face to the pavement, Cavanaugh chanting, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Morasco heard Brenna’s voice saying his name, Brenna rushing up to him, her hands on his arms, his face, in his hair. “What’s happening,” she was saying.

And only then did Morasco see the blood on the sidewalk, pooling under the man’s head. Only then, with the smell of gunfire in the cold air and the sound of it still pounding in his ears, still numbing him to every real sound, every word, only then did he realize that it was his own gun he’d heard. Only then was he aware of his hands, still wrapped tight around the .45, still aching from the force, his fingers still resting against the trigger.

10

“You think Brenna’s gotten to Tarry Ridge yet?” Faith said.

“Seems like she should have.”

“Do you think they’ll find Maya there?”

Jim said, “Yes.” But he didn’t sound like he meant it, and he wouldn’t look at her. Jim never could look Faith in the eyes and lie, which was usually a quality she appreciated, but not now. She could have done with a little lying now.

They were sitting on a very uncomfortable couch in the cold, marble lobby of Lindsay Segal’s building, waiting for Lindsay to come home. That had been the plan. When police had arrived, and they’d said they could take one parent along with them to Tarry Ridge, the three of them had agreed Brenna would go. (It had been a no-brainer, what with her job and her connection to Detective Morasco.)

Jim and Faith had agreed to stay here, on the chance Maya really was at the movies with Lindsay and someone had simply stolen her phone. That had easily been an hour ago, maybe more. And with no call from either the police or Brenna, no more texts from Maya, and no Lindsay, Faith was feeling increasingly tense.

The doorman’s station faced the couch. He was reading
The Secret
. Every so often, Faith would steal a glance at him, wonder what he was thinking—which is what you do when you can’t stand your own thought process. It’s like being at a restaurant and not liking what you order. You pay more attention to what’s on everyone else’s plate. You envy them, simply for having chosen differently.

“Good book?” Faith asked the doorman. She never had gotten the doorman’s name, and since she was past the point of politely asking him for it, she’d secretly nicknamed him Happy. “I’ve heard lots of good things about
The Secret
.”

Faith could feel Jim cringing next to her. He’d never much appreciated her habit of starting conversations with strangers—particularly now, she imagined. And she and Happy had already talked at length—about the weather, about how they’d spent their Christmases, about which movies they thought deserved Academy Award nominations . . .

Jim got quiet when under stress. He closed up into himself, spinning his own cocoon. Faith assumed that was part of his being an only child, and that was fine. For him. Faith, on the other hand, had three sisters and a brother, and too much silence got her spooked. Her mind would fill in the blanks, in this case crafting images of Ashley Stanley at thirteen, blonde as Maya, smiling at Renee Lemaire as she first pulled up in her car.

I have found new friends, a beautiful new life
.

Faith gritted her teeth. She dug her heels into her shoes, pushed away the bad thoughts. She needed to talk to someone, anyone—and if that made Jim feel uncomfortable, she didn’t care. “I’ve had several friends who have read
The Secret
and adored it,” Faith said, a little too loudly.

“It’s terrific,” Happy said. “This is the third time I’ve read it.”

“Isn’t it about the power of positive thinking?”

“Not thinking.” He adjusted his glasses. “Believing. There’s a big difference.”

Faith looked at Jim. He was staring down at the marble floor, his hands clasped together. If you didn’t know him, you might think he was praying.

Happy said, “Belief is a lot more powerful than thought.”

Faith’s white coat lay across her lap. She smoothed it, feeling the cool fabric under her palms, wanting that to be true.

“Has it worked for you?” she said. “Do you have any
Secret
success stories?”

Jim stiffened. “Jesus, Faith,” he whispered.

“I need this,” she said, between her teeth. “I need something.”

Happy said, “I really hope you folks find your daughter.”

“Can you
believe
we will?” Faith said. “Can you believe we’ll find her soon?”

He put his book down. “Yes.”

“Believe it with all your heart,” she said. “Please.”

“Sure,” said Happy. Happy, looking sad. “I can believe that.”

The door pushed open. The doorman’s chin lifted. His thick eyebrows went up, and for a few seconds, Faith thought,
Our prayers are answered. Maya, standing at the door
. Happy said, “Miss Segal, there are people here to see you.”

Jim and Faith both stood up at the same time and turned toward the door, where a baffled teenage girl stood, holding hands with a tall, scruffy boy of about the same age. Maya was not with them.

“Lindsay?” Jim said.

The girl dropped hands with the boy—or maybe it was the other way around. “Yeah?”

Strange, when Maya had told Faith that she was helping a junior with an art project, Faith hadn’t expected the junior to look so . . . well . . . trashy. Faith wasn’t sure whether it was all the makeup or the bubblegum flatness of her voice or the way she regarded her, the pink mouth hanging open, the blackened eyes half closed with a boredom that looked as though she’d practiced it in the mirror. Or maybe it was just the fact that Maya wasn’t standing there with her. Maybe that was it.

Faith sucked in her bad feelings, stuck out her hand. “This is Maya Rappaport’s dad, Jim,” she said. “I’m Faith, her stepmother.”

The boy was the one to shake it. “Hi,” he said. His hand felt a little moist.

She looked at him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sorry. I’m . . . uh . . . Miles.” He said it as though he’d actually forgotten his own name for a few seconds.

“Nice to meet you, Miles.” She saw something in his eyes, a hint of recognition. She got this a lot from strangers—that don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere look. Such was the C-list level of her fame, but while she usually helped people out by telling them she was on that morning TV show they sometimes watched, she didn’t care to do that for this scruffy boy (didn’t anyone shave anymore?). Not if he wasn’t going to help her.

“Lindsay,” Jim said. “Maya never came home.”

The girl’s eyes widened, the gimlet glaze slipping out of them.

“We were hoping she’d be with you.”

“No . . . um . . . She’s not.”

“And you don’t know where she is?” Faith said.

“Sorry.”

Faith’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t expected that answer, but she’d been hoping. Believing. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Jim was right. At times like this, it was better to close yourself off, weave that cocoon, protect yourself . . .

Jim said, “She texted this afternoon that you guys were going to the movies . . .”

“We . . . we didn’t go to the movies, Mr., uh . . .”

“Rappaport. I figured. But my daughter is missing, so any help you might be able to give  . . .”

“
What?
” Miles’s voice cracked on the word, his face flushing. Lindsay shot him a look.

Faith trained her eyes on him. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you. Maya is missing,” she said. “I’m sure the police will be talking to you as well, but we just wanted to know if you had any idea where she might be.”

“Missing,” Miles said.

Lindsay said, “The police?”

“Maybe she mentioned something at the sleepover . . . Do you remember Maya saying anything that seemed strange or out of the ordinary?” Jim said. “I hear there was a party here last night, and maybe—”

“She wasn’t here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maya was never here?” Lindsay said it like a question. “I did have a party, but she . . . um . . . She wasn’t invited.”

“You’re being serious with us,” Jim said.

“Yes. No offense or anything,” Lindsay said. “Right, Miles?”

“Uh . . . no. I mean yeah.”

“She’s just a freshman. I don’t know her that well.”

“She never came to your apartment yesterday.”

“No.”

Jim stared at her for several seconds, saying nothing.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Rappaport,” Lindsay said. “We have a test tomorrow and we have to study.” She took Miles’s hand. “I really hope you find Maya.”

Jim and Faith watched them go, Miles glancing over his shoulder briefly as the elevator doors opened.

Jim exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to drain everything from him—life, hope. “She could be in Tarry Ridge,” he said. “They might be with her right now.”

Faith could feel Jim turning to look at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She stayed focused on the closed elevator doors, on the spot where the boy, Miles, had turned to her. She’d seen something in his eyes then, something crumbling and sad.

“I hope so,” Faith said.

“Help me,” Lindsay told Miles. She was taking everything out of the overnight bag Maya had left, and she was shoving it into a black plastic garbage bag. She looked psychotic. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Give me that coat.”

Maya’s bright blue coat was draped across a chair in the corner. Miles picked it up and handed it to her, thinking of Maya, standing at his door in this coat, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Two weeks ago. Not even. A week and a half, and now she was . . . Where was she? This was surreal. This stuff didn’t happen to people. Not in real life. Miles needed to wake up from this. He wished so badly that he would just wake up and it would be three weeks ago and then he’d know. He’d know what not to do.

“You can’t do that,” Lindsay said. “You can’t check out on me.” She stuffed the coat in the bag along with everything else, pushing the arms in, as though the coat was alive and fighting with her. “You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

“You lied to her parents.”

She stopped what she was doing. “You want me to tell her parents what we did to her . . . what
you
did to her?”

Miles swallowed hard.

“I’d be glad to do it, Miles. You want me to?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Lindsay finished stuffing the coat into the bag.

“We have to delete the video,” she said. “Did you record it?”

He stared down at the rug. Lindsay had cleaned it, but you could still see the puke stain. “No,” he said.

“I thought you said you wanted to.”

“I didn’t record it.”

“Okay . . .” She frowned at him. “Well . . . whatever. We’re good then. It means I have the only copy.” She moved over to her desk, squeezing around Miles, slipping her hands around his waist to move him.

He heard her behind him, tapping on her keyboard as she called up the video. Lindsay’s voice slipping out of the speakers.
“And anyway, Miles said you liked to party . . .”

Lindsay click, click, clicked. Miles stared at the far wall, at a framed poster from the American Ballet Theater—pink ballet shoe against a black background. He thought of all the time he’d spent in this room, on that bed, looking up at that poster. Strange how you can be in the same place, looking at the same thing, yet feel so differently.

“Done.” She spun around, started across the room. “Now we have to take her stuff out to the incinerator.”

“What?”

Lindsay stopped. “You heard me.”

“But . . . what if there’s some clue in there. Maybe . . . like . . . a note from somebody or a receipt or . . .”

“Listen to me,” Lindsay said. “Maya Rappaport was never here.”

“They’re going to find out.”

“No they won’t.”

“You texted her, didn’t you?”

Lindsay stared at him, blinking. “Whatever,” she said finally. “I’ll tell them someone stole my phone.”

“Come on,” he said. “There could be something important in her overnight bag.”

“Stop it, Miles.”

“We could leave it at the police station anonymously. No one has to know it came from us . . .”

“There’s nothing in this bag other than clothes and stuff.” She gave the coat one more push, then tied it off at the top. “Look. We played a little joke on her. It wasn’t a big deal. Just because she showed up over here and booted on my carpet, it doesn’t mean we’re required to participate in an investigation.”

“But she
is
missing.”

“
I didn’t make her disappear
,” Lindsay said. “I’m not going to freak out my parents by getting involved with the police. I’m not going to have cops in this apartment making me feel like this is all
my fault
when it
isn’t
.”

Miles had never noticed how pale Lindsay’s eyes were. He’d only noticed her shiny hair and her tight body and the way she smelled, like fresh flowers. But the way she was looking at him now, they reminded him of ice shards, or maybe lasers. Something so pale and cold it hurt.

“All we did was talk,” he said.

“What?”

“That’s all we did. She came over. She said she was in the neighborhood. We talked about art class. She told me she might drop chorus. That was it.”

“Bullshit.” Lindsay pushed the garbage bag at him. “The incinerator is down at the end of the hall.”

Miles took the bag and left her apartment. He could feel the brass buttons on Maya’s blue coat through the thin plastic. Again he thought about her at his door a week and a half ago, the way she shifted from foot to foot, her teeth dragging against her lower lip. He remembered the earrings she was wearing and how she tugged on one of them, twisting it around.
I like your earrings
, he had said.

Thanks. My grandma gave them to me.

He remembered how nervous she’d seemed, how obvious it was that she’d worked up courage to come see him and how flattered he’d been by the thought of that. He remembered how he’d stared deep into her eyes as she talked to him, trying to make her more nervous, liking that feeling.

Miles threw the bag into the incinerator. He closed the door and headed back to Lindsay’s apartment, trying to keep himself from thinking about her, about Maya, poor Maya, and how he’d made her disappear.

The squad car yanks itself away from the curb and hurls up Twentieth Street, the siren burning Brenna’s ears. Her stomach drops with the sharp movement.
Forty minutes,
she thinks.
Forty minutes and I’ll be in Tarry Ridge and so will she.
The uniformed officer in front of her shifts in her seat. She has cornrowed hair, and when she moves the beads in her braids click against one another. A comforting sound. The seat squeaks as Brenna shifts her weight and the beads click and the siren blares, every sound pushing against her, echoing in her ears. Her heart, too. That echoes, too.