Selena sighed slightly. It wasn’t clear whether she was just weighing the question or was annoyed by it. “Well, to be honest, I think there are a lot of reasons that families might choose to keep stories like these to themselves. If they’re thinking abduction, the press could spook a perpetrator. I’ve heard it often endangers the victim more than helps, unfortunately. Not to mention, once the press is involved, the detectives will be inundated with false leads, tying up their time and taking them off course. Perhaps, even, they want to avoid traumatizing Naomi years from now when she’s old enough to dig into news archives. Though of course if Isabel is found dead, there won’t be anything they can do to stop reporters from sharing the story, if they want to.”
It sounded like Selena was pretty pessimistic about the possibility of Isabel being alive and okay. I imagined Naomi as a teenager, googling her dead mother, seeing pictures of a dismembered body. It made me shudder.
“Anyway,” Selena continued, “you’d be surprised how many missing persons cases never make it to press. Especially in New York City. There are tons of runaways, plenty of parents who abandon ship—dads mostly, but some moms, too. And the press only cares about certain missing people. Like if it’s a Black adult from Queens? You’ll never hear about it. Please.” Her eyes narrowed. Clearly this was a loaded topic for her. Of course it would be. I could only nod my understanding. “In that respect,” she said, “it is a little odd that they haven’t been all over Isabel. A white, attractive mom is very appealing to reporters. But it’s still really recent, too. She’s only been missing a few days, and it’s so unclear what they’re investigating at this point, it’d be difficult for reporters to report on it, frankly.” She took a sip of water and glanced toward the door.
“The detectives came to my apartment,” I blurted out. “It kind of freaked me out. Did they come to yours, too?”
She nodded. “They did. Don’t worry about it. It’s totally standard for them to contact people who see her regularly. See if something seemed off with her. Or if she had said anything that could be a clue.”
“There was a little more than that.” The words were tumbling out—I hadn’t meant to tell her this, hadn’t planned to. But I needed to tell someone. To try to make sense of it. “They said I had plans with Isabel the night she disappeared. That in her phone, it said ‘drinks with Jenn D.’ scheduled for Thursday night. The Thursday she disappeared. But I don’t remember ever having plans with her. We had never even hung out outside of our meetings.” I stared at her intently, desperate for her to say something that would help all this make sense. I knew I was coming across like a total creep, but it was a relief to unload.
She pursed her lips, processing. “That’s weird. But I’m sure there’s an explanation. It probably means that she meant to ask you for drinks, and put it in her calendar that day to hold the date, but never actually asked you. Or maybe you forgot? God knows I can barely remember to brush my teeth these days.” She was trying to bring lightness back into our conversation, or perhaps get us back to our comfort zone, commiserating about our “mom brains.” But I wasn’t ready to put it to rest quite yet.
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right. It’s really bothering me, though. Also, I have another really strange question.”
“Sure,” she said, without enthusiasm.
“Did Isabel ever do or say anything in our meetings that was like . . . offensive? Or mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like . . . did you like her? Did it seem like I liked her?”
I was aware that my creepiness had crossed over into full-blown lunacy. I was just determined to figure out any reason why I would have written what I wrote about her. And my mind was coming up empty. So maybe something had happened that I had forgotten but others, like Selena, would remember.
Selena spoke slowly, deliberately, looking at me with concern. “Of course I like her.” Her return to the present tense made me feel guilty for once again having assumed that Isabel was dead in a ditch somewhere. “I don’t know her that well. And she seemed a bit distant in those meetings—just a bit more subdued or measured than the rest of us. Probably because she was facilitator or whatever, she was trying to be somewhat professional or something. Or maybe she just had a hard time being vulnerable. I don’t know. I’ve never exactly felt close to her. But she’s always seemed like a perfectly nice, sweet person, yes. Definitely. Why are you asking me this?”