Page 28 of Between Two Strangers

My knees went weak as I took in her face. A pretty one, framed by tendrils of blond that had come loose from her ponytail, but it didn’t belong to Chloe.

“I’m looking for my sister, Chloe Severson,” I said, raising my voice so she could hear me. “Is she here?”

“There’s no one with that name living here,” the girl said brusquely. “Try upstairs.” She started to turn away.

“Wait, were you in Dover on Friday—at a party?” Even as the words came out, I remembered seeing her there, swaying to the music as she talked too loudly, as if in love with the sound of her own voice. And, in that moment I knew from the roiling in my stomach that this was the woman who’d hitched the ride with the couple back to Boston.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“My sister is missing and might be in danger, and I’m trying to fuckingfindher.” I’d raised my voice even louder but didn’t care. “Someone told me she was dropped off here on Friday night, by a couple from the party. That she borrowed a phone because hers was broken.”

The girl scrunched her face, now looking more concerned than irritated, and finally opened the door. “Some couple gavemea ride here from the party, and I borrowed one of their phones to call the guy who lives here. But there was no one else in the car.”

Whatever came out of my mouth next was nothing more than a guttural response, not even actual words, and I staggered down the steps. As soon as I reached my car, I dry heaved once, before the contents of my stomach came hurling out onto the grass between the curb and the sidewalk.

I slowly stood up straight and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my sweater.

If Chloe hadn’t left the party when Ryan thought she did, if she hadn’t been driven back to Boston and dropped off for a booty call, and if she hadn’t sloshed beer on her phone, disabling it, then I had no idea where she was... and why she was unable to call or text me. Which meant that something very, very bad must have happened to her. I was going to have to call my mother—and the police, too.

14

Now

BY NINE THE NEXT MORNING, THERE’S A LOCKSMITH STANDINGin my apartment, a fiftysomething fireplug of a guy named Buddy, who confirms that yes, my lock was tampered with, probably with some kind of lock-picking tool because he can see the tool marks on the cylinder. What chills me even more: According to Buddy, this doesn’t look like “your typical break-in.” In walk-up buildings like this one, he says, burglars tend to hack off the lock or use a pry bar to bend the door away from the frame.

Tuna, I notice, has bolted for the bedroom. It seems like she’s definitely got a thing about men she doesn’t know, and that’s what sent her into hiding last night.

“Please,” I implore Buddy. “I need to make sure this never happens again.”

“Okay, understood,” he tells me. “But you’re gonna need to upgrade.”

He recommends a special maximum security dead bolt, which to my horror, is going to cost 295 dollars plus labor, but Buddy assures me it will offer the best protection. I agree to the price because I don’treally have a choice if I ever want to sleep through the night again. And maybe I can harangue the building management company into paying for it, claiming that the original one wasn’t adequate. Once Buddy has installed it and taken off, I turn the dead bolt back and forth a few times, trying to feel comforted by the heavy click, but it doesn’t do enough to calm my nerves.

I have too much on my to-do list today—and too many issues to contend with—so I fight off the urge to curl up in a ball on the couch and instead make myself a cup of tea. After taking a few deep breaths, I place a call to the Dobson Fertility Clinic. Maybe itwillhelp to act like the money is already in my bank account. The woman who answers quickly finds me in their system and, after confirming a few pieces of information, offers me their first available exam appointment, which is three weeks down the road.

“Right, yes, that’s fine,” I say.

She goes on to explain that the exam will include blood work, ultrasound, and a test for hormone regularity, and the doctor and I will also discuss whether I’m a candidate for medication to stimulate my ovaries. Thanks to my previous consultation at Dobson and the additional research I’ve done, I’m up to speed on what to expect, but I listen politely and thank her when she’s finished.

As I hang up, my pulse is racing. Though I’ve spent the last few months canvassing the internet for anything I can learn about IUI and IVF, reading posts and essays by single moms, and having several consultations with clinics before deciding on Dobson, an exam will be a big next step. It certainly won’t commit me to anything, and yet I suddenly feel so much closer to taking this leap.

It both terrifies and thrills me.

Next, I grab a notebook and set about the task I laid out for myself last night—to try to recall everything I can about my brief time with C.J. A few memories have already revealed themselves over the past few days, and I sense that if I sit quietly and prompt my brain,more will materialize. I start by scribbling down reflections about the images Idorecall. C.J. in the lobby of the hotel where my friend Tess worked, looking dapper as hell. Him in the bar, where we first started talking. The two of us in his hotel room, peeling off each other’s clothes.

I sketch a little, too, with colored pencils. His hand around a drink at the bar. The silk curtains in his room. The deep blue of his eyes.

And then suddenly a new image flickers in my mind. C.J. standing in the middle of his hotel room as I prepared to leave. His mood had shifted from the night before, and he suddenly seemed distracted, somber, even. I’d wondered if he was regretting the encounter, that it seemed tawdry to him in the near light of day, or it had been a wife or girlfriend on the phone call he’d taken when I was in the bathroom, and he was now feeling guilty.

I wait for something else, for a memory that will help me understand what’s happened this week, but my mind stalls.

I spend the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon finishing the graphic design project I’d begged for an extension on, and the day passes without a peep from Kane. Though he mentioned that I might not hear from him until Wednesday, it annoys me he hasn’t reached out today. All I want right now is reassurance about the money—until then, I can’t relish the news. I’d be an idiot to do that before I have confirmation from him.

Around four, I end up calling his office. He’s not available, I’m told by the receptionist I saw yesterday, but she promises to relay the message.

By dinnertime there’s still no word, meaning I surely won’t hear from him today. Is this a red flag, a signal that there’s an issue with the trust? I thaw a frozen chicken breast in the microwave and, after a quick sauté, plate it with a small salad, but I’m so agitated I barely taste my food. As I’m clearing the table later, I hear someone out in the corridor, mounting the stairs to the next floor, and my wholebody tenses. Even with the better lock, I still feel vulnerable. Though it’s not even nine o’clock, I pull the table against the door again.

Out of nowhere, I feel a longing for my dad, a man I barely remember, except for the love and kindness he showed me on the weekends I went as a small child to stay with him before he died. How great it would be to call him right now and tell him everything.

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