Chapter 16

Day 5, Thursday

The empty lots and cracks in the sidewalks appear more numerous in the bright sunshine. Dark tenements and tent towns are like postindustrial grave markers tallying the unexpected death of a dream held by each resident. My driver slows down at a stop sign but doesn’t stop.

Last night when I returned home to Angela’s apartment, well past store hours of the phone retailer, I fell asleep, exhausted from the day’s informative-slash-unproductive activities, and the morale suck of having my phone stolen by grade school kids. I muttered plenty of curse words against them each time I felt the knee-jerk reaction to check the time/texts/emails. But I can’t bring myself to get angry—the tiny toes peeking through hole-riddled shoes won’t let me. Those kids reinforced a valuable lesson: no moment here is safe.

The dilapidated building at Manu’s address squeezes in between two brick residential structures, both clearly more recent, judging from the stark white trim hugging their windowsills, in contrast to the peeling dark-green paint of Manu’s building. I should wait for Jean-Luc, but I’m early. Instead I pay the driver and go ahead on my own.

A gentle push cracks open the building’s metal door. I don’t have the apartment number, but a row of mailboxes sits in the lobby, each labeled by tenant last name. WOOD 12 marks one box of a dozen.

The week of her disappearance, that Wednesday, Angela was seen at the convenience store around the corner from her building (scene of my disturbing swastika encounter). Then, a few hours later, she was noted entering Manu’s apartment by a neighbor. We only know this because when Manu went missing, the police interviewed everyone in her building; the neighbor recalled a female visitor that day fitting Angela’s description. When she was shown a photo of my sister, it was confirmed.

Sounds more common to nightlife swell in the stairwell. Moaning, bass music, glass breaking, scuffling, crying, and a baby’s coo. I turn back, deciding to wait for Jean-Luc after all, when a man descends the stairs. I press myself against the side as he squeezes past without making eye contact. His ducked head and rumpled pants could mean he’s late for work, but curiosity drives me to the landing, up to the fourth floor, where the bass music emanates. A door is partly ajar; the apartment is dark inside, its shades still drawn. A woman in a negligee sits within counting cash on a table.