“No one’s ever there.”

I turn and see a goateed guy smoking in the open door of the office supply. He looks, ironically, like he’s never seen the inside of any office: you can count the patches on his skin that aren’t tattooed.

“You know what they do up there?” I ask him.

He shrugs. His eyes sweep over my whole body, head to toe and back again, so slowly it’s like he’s making a point. “Imports-exports, or some shit like that,” he says.

“Imports-exports,” I say, as sweetly as I can. “Or some shit like that? Which is it?”

His cigarette hovers halfway to his lips. “It’s like that, huh?” He smiles as if we’ve been sharing a joke, then takes one long pull, directing the smoke away from my face like he’s doing me a favor. “Dude told me imports-exports. So I guess that’s what they do.”

“Dude?”

He shrugs. “Some douchebag in a suit.” He smiles again. His teeth are bad. “Is he your ex or something?”

I give him a look and his smile withers. “All right, look. He gave me his number, in case of delivery. To call when he gets a package, that kind of thing.”

“Does he? Ever get a package?”

“Sure,” he says. “I got one in the back right now. Haven’t brought it upstairs yet.”

He rolls his eyes when I just stand there expectantly. “Ah, shit. You ain’t a cop, are you?”

“Worse,” I say. I give him my best pretty-girl smile. “I’m a lawyer.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Barrens at just after eight o’clock on a Saturday is as close to hopping as it ever gets. I straighten up as we pass the Donut Hole: a handful of picketers are gathered in the parking lot, holding signs.

WHAT’S IN OUR WATER?

OPTIMAL POISONS, INC.

We’re past the protest almost before I’ve had time to register it, but it gives me a small lift of confidence. Optimal hasn’t bought everybody, at least—not yet.

Mel’s and the VFW bar spill patrons into the parking lot, keeping their doors propped open so the music flows out and the smoke flows in. A girl and her boyfriend are making out on the hood of the car. Her jean shorts hitched up where he’s grabbing her. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Laughing like crazy while their friends pelt them with bottle caps.

Had things turned out differently, I might be standing at the bar next to Kaycee Mitchell, bitching about work and kids and husbands, slugging down a couple of vodka crans and sneaking a cigarette when we got drunk enough.

Wherever she is now, I wonder, does she ever miss Barrens? Does she regret any of what she left behind? Somehow, I doubt it. I’m beginning to think Kaycee Mitchell may have gotten her payday after all. Maybe she did get sick. Maybe she was paid to disappear, and her family—and even her friends—was paid to lie about it.

Leaving the VFW behind, the silence seems to flow into the car like dark water. Saturday, eight P.M., and nowhere to be, nothing to do, no one missing me, even in Chicago.