Forgive Me (6 page)

“How do you know?” Carolyn asked.

“Because that’s what I would have done.”

“Most runaways don’t go far,” Angie said. “From my experience, the ones who leave foster care are more likely to leave the state. Others stay close to home, crash with friends, people they meet. Few leave home thinking the street is their ultimate destination.”

“But I’ve already called every one of Nadine’s friends and all my relatives, like you asked,” Carolyn said. “She’s not with any of them.”

“That’s why I’m going to talk to each person individually,” Angie said. “Maybe one of them isn’t telling us the truth.”

Bao returned to his efforts while Angie spent some time cross-referencing the list of friends she had compiled with the pictures Carolyn had collected. Angie was clicking through the photos, taking in every detail of Nadine that she could. Was there a boy online she’d been talking with? Somebody who had lured her away? Somebody who made her feel special and loved? Bao would find that out soon enough.

“Bao, any luck with the Facebook page?”

“No, she logged out and her Facebook profile is set to as private as can be. I’m working on getting access, though.”

“What about social media accounts? WeChat? Vine? Twitter? Instagram? WhatsApp?”

“Checking them all and the logs,” Bao said. “No activity on any of her other social media accounts.”

“What about any kind of tracking on Nadine’s cell phone?”

“Like a Find My Phone app?” Bao answered. “I wish, but we’re not getting that lucky.”

“Carolyn, whatever you do, do not turn off the phone,” Angie said. “I’m assuming it’s in your name.”

“It is.”

“I want a call log history,” Angie said. “I’ll need your help for that. Your cell phone provider should be able to assist. Get on that right away, if you can.”
And no more booze,
she wanted to add. “We need the last few hours of calls, every text, every call coming in and out of that phone.”

“What’s that going to do?” Carolyn asked.

“We’re looking for patterns. Who was she talking to around the time she went missing? Had she made other calls to that person? Who was she texting?”

“You think somebody lured my daughter away?”

“It’s a possibility. It happens more often than you think. We need to compile a list of key people and then we’ll head to those locations, hang up posters, start asking questions. That’s how we get information. Once you get a few answers, it usually snowballs from there. Then we can figure out which way we need to go.”

“Or I get into her online accounts, browser history,” Bao said. “That might help, too. Unless you’ve found a diary, Ange.”

“No, I haven’t. I don’t think she kept one.”

“The police have to do this work,” Carolyn said with venom. “I can’t believe they’re not doing this for my daughter! She’s missing and they’re not doing anything to find her. She might be dead for all I know!” Carolyn sank to the floor, tears streaming, her body convulsing as she sobbed.

Angie went to her, knelt down, and brushed away some of the tears streaming down her client’s face. “I know this is hard, beyond hard, and it’s so frustrating. I know you want the police to do more, but unless we can prove there was a crime, they’re going to be limited in what they can do for us. That doesn’t mean they don’t care. They want to help and we’re going to help them. We’re going to keep them informed every step of the way.”

Angie’s phone rang.
DAD
the display read, so she let it go to voice mail. Carolyn needed and deserved her full attention right now.

“It’s just not right,” Carolyn said, no longer crying, but her hands still shaking. “God, I need a drink. Can I get you two something?”

Angie bit her tongue. It was not the time or place to confront Carolyn’s drinking.

Angie’s phone buzzed as a text came in.
Sweetheart it’s Dad . . . call me ASAP 911. It’s Mom.

Angie’s breath caught and her hand went to her mouth.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Carolyn asked, taking notice of Angie’s distress.

“Hang on, hang on.” Disoriented, Angie dialed her father, her hands shaking violently.

“Daddy? Daddy, what’s going on?” Angie said soon as her father answered.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” Her father’s breath came in spurts. He was crying, something Angie had never heard him do before.

“Daddy, where’s Mom? What’s happened?” The tremor in Angie’s voice made it hard to get the words out.

“She’s gone, sweetheart,” Gabriel said. “Your mother had a massive stroke this afternoon. She’s gone.”

CHAPTER 6

K
athleen DeRose wasn’t gone, not exactly. Angie was completely shocked at the sight of her mother motionless on her hospital bed, even though she knew that the brain damage from the stroke had been extensive and catastrophic. They had shaved the front of her head and made a hole to alleviate the pressure. A thin plastic tube drained blood from the brain while machines clinked and hummed and breathed for her. Kathleen did not have enough brain function left to breathe without mechanical help.

Her mother’s eyes were perhaps the most disturbing sight of all. They were milky gray, gazing at nothing, vacant. The eyelids fluttered in a reflexive way, as if dust had gotten stuck underneath.

The doctor on call explained the situation as best he could. Other doctors who’d treated Kathleen when she was first admitted would have to fill in details later. Still, a picture formed in Angie’s mind that was devastatingly easy to understand.

Kathleen had suffered a hemorrhagic stroke, the least common but most often fatal of the two types of strokes. An aneurysm had burst, causing blood to spill into places blood didn’t belong. The result was tremendous swelling and pressure that damaged most of the cells and tissue in the brain. The aneurysm could have been related to the lupus, but chances were they would never know.

Angie’s mother was alive, but dead. She had a heartbeat and lung respirations, but it was all because of the machines. The staff at Virginia Hospital Center had been incredibly solicitous, and answered every question Gabriel and Angie could think to ask.

Hours went by. Nothing major happened, because the major thing had already occurred. Angie had nothing to do but wait at her mother’s bedside.

Night turned to day and the doctor who first treated Kathleen finally interrupted the all-night vigil. Gabe and Angie were alone at Kathleen’s bedside. Because of a long-standing feud and an unconventional upbringing, Angie’s family was her father and her mother—no siblings, cousins, aunts, or uncles were in the picture. They’d never been a part of Angie’s life; instead, Walter and Louise Odette had served as honorary aunt and uncle.

The doctor, a thin, kind-eyed man with graying hair, led them to a room where the reality came into sharper, grimmer focus. Kathleen’s heart was failing. They would need to put in a PICC line to give her medicine that would prevent a fatal heart attack.

“But she’s brain dead already,” Angie said.

“Yes, she is—ninety percent, we believe, but technically she’s alive as long as her heart continues to beat.”

“Ninety percent?” Gabriel said, hope coming to his voice.

“Well, it could be closer to a hundred percent,” the doctor said, “but to test we’d have to put in the PICC line. However, I’ve read her advance directive, and this is an invasive procedure.”

Angie flashed back to the lunch that had foreshadowed this tragedy. Hadn’t her mother used this exact scenario?

Her father was crying again. “She doesn’t want any extraordinary measures,” he said, choking back tears. “Ninety percent or one hundred, what’s the difference? We have to let her go.”

The doctor’s empathic look made it clear he concurred.

They had to wait for the respiratory team to arrive before any of the machines keeping Kathleen alive could be disconnected. In those tense, tear-filled hours, Angie and her dad passed the time singing some of Kathleen’s favorite songs to her. Paul Simon, James Taylor, Cat Stevens, The Band. Neither Angie nor her father were decent singers, but the music came from the heart and the performance quality didn’t much matter.

Angie went into “handle it” mode. She started to make calls, arrangements, dealing with logistics of dying. She always operated at a higher level during a crisis. This fit that category. She was not frozen by grief, but propelled by purpose. She wrote an obituary while her mother’s heart continued to beat without that PICC line in place. The funeral home offered sympathy, but ended the call by asking her to phone back when her mother “officially expired.”

“Officially expired?” she repeated for her father’s benefit. “What do they think, Mom’s a carton of milk?”

In between, Angie spent a lot of time talking to her mom, telling her all the things she loved about her, the memories she’d always cherish. She sat on an uncomfortable chair, drinking coffee, holding her mother’s hand, talking like a daughter who never had enough time to properly catch up on all she had to say.

She spent some time going over Nadine’s case. When Angie left Carolyn’s house, she’d called another private investigator, Michael Webb, to come in and continue the hunt with Bao. Webb ran a bouncy house business and did PI work on the side as part of Angie’s
& Associates
contingent.

She was in the middle of explaining her strategy for locating the missing girl when the respiratory team arrived.

Angie went to the waiting room to get her father, who had fallen asleep on a thin-cushioned couch that was too small for his tall frame. “It’s time to let Mom go.” She had nothing more to handle, she realized, and the tears came.

CHAPTER 7

E
xhibit D: Excerpts from the journal of Nadine Jessup, pages 7-12

Let’s start here. This is so screwed up! Date unknown. Place unknown. All I have to get down my thoughts is my journal and a pen I brought from home. My phone and wallet are gone and I’m totally freaking out. When I finally woke up, I felt sick, not like I was going to puke or anything, just really weird. My head was fuzzy and it was hard for me to stand. I don’t drink much so I guess I took too many swigs of that vodka in Ricardo’s flask. I don’t even know how to feel except for stupid. I thought this was a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. Where am I? Who am I with? And I don’t have a phone or my wallet!! I’m such a moron (lol just ask my dad).

I needed to get my stuff back, so I walked to the door, more like stumbled, turned the knob, but it’s locked! The door is effin’ locked! Now I’m really freaking out so I turned the handle some more, but it doesn’t budge. So I banged on the door really hard and nobody answered and then I think I screamed, but nobody came. My mouth felt funny. My tongue was like a sponge sucking up every bit of water. And the room was spinning around so fast I couldn’t stand anymore. I went to the futon and just fell down and the next thing I knew my eyes were closed and when I opened them again I saw Ricardo hovering over me.

Ricardo stared at me and for some reason I wasn’t scared or grossed out. I liked how he’s looking at me, like he’s really seeing me. Somebody is finally seeing me! His eyes are beautiful, big and brown, and his smile is something you can’t imagine. Like it warms you from the inside. He’s not touching me or doing anything creepy, he’s just kneeling on the floor beside the futon, hanging out, watching over me like he’s my protector or something. He’s wearing jeans and a tank top white undershirt and you just know he works out. His body is really amazing. Strong arms with really well defined muscles.

I’ve always wanted to be someone’s special somebody. There was this boy at school, I’m not naming names, but I had a wicked crush on him for so long and I smiled so hard every time we talked my mouth hurt. But nothing ever happened between us because he already had a girlfriend, or I think he did. Either way I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to get rejected. But I loved that feeling of a guy caring for me even if it was only in my imagination. Why can’t I have a real boyfriend? Somebody who really cares about me IRL? Ya know . . . in real life. I always wondered what it would feel like and I can see it in Ricardo’s eyes.

My phone. This is my biggest worry. I asked Ricardo about it and he tells me he doesn’t know anything about it. He tried to help me find it. We looked all over the room. Maybe I dropped it somewhere because I was drinking. I try to remember. Did I have it in my hand when we were going into the apartment? Ricardo thinks I did. Or more specifically he thinks I had them both in my hand when I got out of the car. That’s what he remembers anyway. It’s possible because I was looking at my phone. Maybe I wanted my wallet for something. I don’t remember. But Ricardo’s so certain of it that now I’m certain of it.

I feel sick because I must have dropped it or something and I remember a little bit about the neighborhood. It’s a pretty rundown part of a city. God, which one? Where the hell am I? Right?! I ask Ricardo and he says we’re near Baltimore, that’s where the studio is, he tells me. Then I remembered the photo shoot (How did I forget? How much did I drink?) and suddenly I’m worried about something completely different. Ricardo tells me that Stephen Macan had to go home. Probably to give his daughter the present I told him to buy, probably to have cake and ice cream with his perfect family, and then he’ll post pictures on Facebook or Instagram, which is something my father would never do for me. Now I’ve really screwed up. I’m always screwing things up. The photo shoot got cancelled because I got too drunk.

Get it together Nadine! I’m more worried about upsetting Stephen Macan than I am about my damn wallet and phone and Ricardo feels terrible about both things. He’s also being so super sweet to me. I told him I didn’t feel that great and right away he got me a glass of water. I asked him how long I’d been asleep and he said all night! ALL NIGHT! I guess I really did drink too much.