“Do you know this man?”
Curiosity pulls me from the safety of my house to look more closely at the image there.
My breath leaves me when I see that it’s you, Adam.
Your hair is different, shorter and maybe a little lighter. Your skin is tan, as if you’ve been on vacation. You look relaxed, happy in a way that is unfamiliar to me. I wonder where you were when this picture was taken. I’m jealous in a weird way that I am not there with you, that I never saw that look on your face in real time.
I step back from the stranger. I’ve already forgotten his name. This time, he does come up a stair, moving closer. I haven’t answered him, but a knowledge has passed between us. You wear your heart on your sleeve, my mother always said. I could never hide anything from her, from anyone.
“Can we talk, Ms. Greenwood?” he asks. He lifts a palm. “I don’t have to come in. We could walk to that coffee place on the corner.”
He nods over toward the shop where I stop most mornings when I’m heading into Manhattan. His manner, his tone, is gentle, polite. But he stays rooted, that smile unwavering. There’s something steely to him, something solid. He’s not just going to go away. I feel frozen, uncertain, blood rushing in my ears. When I still don’t say anything, he goes on.
“My client has hired me to find this man. He was dating my client’s daughter when she disappeared nine months ago.”
He taps on his device and holds out his phone again.
This time there’s a willowy girl with faceted hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles, a bounce of golden curls. Her smile seems somehow radiant and sad at once; her gaze almost imploring. She’s your type; I can tell. She and I don’t look alike; if she seems sun-kissed and bubbly, I am cool and quiet. My hair is dark, my eyes a deep blue. But there’s something about her that I know I see when I look in the mirror. What is it?
My heart is thumping again, dread finding an acidic home in my belly.
“I’ll just get my coat,” I say. It comes out like a whisper. He nods and moves off the steps and stands on the street, waiting—arms folded, legs akimbo.
“Take your time,” he says. I wonder if he’ll start walking toward the coffee shop. Grabbing my phone from the couch, my bag and coat from the hallway foyer. I think I should text Jax to say what’s happening but then I just don’t. I lock the door and turn to find him still standing there.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I stay, hand on the knob.
“Bailey Kirk with the Turner and Ives Agency,” he says easily into the awkward silence, as if he suspects I’ve already forgotten. “I’ll wait if you want to check my credentials.”
That picture of you. So far, I haven’t admitted that I know you. In fact, I haven’t said much at all. I could just go back in, lock my door, and refuse to talk to this guy. He’s not a cop; he has no authority over me or anything.
He starts walking slowly, a glance back at me to see if I’m following. I hesitate, considering my options. Finally, curiosity gets the better of me. I move down the stairs and follow him.
nine
The coffee shop is overwarm and crowded on a weekday midmorning, populated by Brooklyn creatives with AirPods, open laptops, and man buns. There’s even a guy in a flannel shirt with one of those full beards that looks like a bush is growing on his face. I am really eager for that particular trend to die.
Bailey Kirk asks for my order. Triple espresso almond milk latte, I tell him, and he gets in line with a nod, waving away the ten I offer. I find us a table by the window, my hands shaking. The aroma of the various brews are heavy on the air, cups and spoons clink, voices are low, the frothing machine hisses. I shift into my seat, watching him.
Who is this guy?
Different from the other people around him. Focused, where others are diffuse. He’s powerful, broad and tight bodied, where people around him seem loose, soft. He approaches the counter and speaks softly to the barista. She smiles the way young girls do in the presence of virility. He says something that makes her laugh. Then he turns to look at me, maybe to check if I’m still there. And I’m embarrassed to be caught watching him, look away.
Again, I remind myself: You can go. You don’t need to talk to this person.
I only glanced at his identification. Really, it could have been his gym membership card. Grabbing my phone, I enter “Turner and Ives” into the web browser; a slick, mobile-friendly site pops up featuring the faces of two stern-faced but not unattractive older women and the bold words: Integrity * Ethics * Success.