visited. I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, but that’s hardly new. Now, I follow the mass of humanity hustling across the train platform to the exit signs, all of my worldly possessions packed into a single piece of luggage rolling behind me. Once I had a house, a car, a white picket fence. But time erodes and now . . .
Let’s just say I’ve learned to travel light.
Out on the bright sidewalk, I stop, blink, then shutter my eyes completely. Walking straight out into downtown Boston feels like an assault on the senses. People, shrieking horns, crosswalks. The stench of diesel fuel, fried fish, harbor brine. I’ve forgotten the crushing feel of the concrete jungle, even one with a glittering waterfront.
I work on taking a deep, shuddering breath. This is my new home until I complete my mission. I exhale slowly. Then I open my eyes and square my shoulders. The last of my nightmare and travel daze falls away. I’m ready to get to it, which is good given the flood of annoyed pedestrians shoving past me.
From my worn leather messenger bag, I withdraw the file filled with papers I printed out days ago. It includes a map of Boston, articles on city demographics, and a photo of a shyly smiling girl with smooth dark skin, gorgeous brown eyes, and deep black hair cascading down in a mass of carefully groomed ringlets. Fifteen at the time of her disappearance. Sixteen now.
Meet Angelique Lovelie Badeau. Angel to her friends. LiLi to her family.
Angelique disappeared eleven months ago from Mattapan, Boston. Walked out of her school on a Friday afternoon in November and then . . . Poof. No sightings. No leads. No breaks in the case. For eleven whole months.
Bostonians will tell you that Mattapan is that kind of neighborhood. Rough. Poor. Filled with hardworking souls, of course, and a rich cultural heritage thanks to having the country’s largest Haitian population outside of Florida. But also a hotbed of gang activity and violent crime. If you want to get shot or stabbed, Murderpan, as the locals call it, is the neighborhood for it. Which is where I now plan to rent a place, find a job, and question the neighbors.
And I hope, through sheer guts, determination, and blind luck, I will find a girl the rest of the world seems to have forgotten already.
I’m not a police officer.
I’m not a private investigator.
I have no special skills or training.
I’m only me. An average, middle-aged white woman with more regrets than belongings, more sad stories than happy ones.
My name is Frankie Elkin and finding missing people—particularly minorities—is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking. For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, no help. Why do I do what I do?
So many of our children have vanished. Too many will never be found, often based solely on the color of their skin. Maybe the question shouldn’t be why am I doing this, but why isn’t everyone looking?
Angelique Lovelie Badeau deserves to come home.
I consult my map one last time. I need to find the commuter rail to Morton Street. The map of Boston’s T system shows it as a purple line, which of course matches nothing that I can see. I spin around here. I spin around there. Then realize: I shouldn’t have left South Station. Back I head.
I don’t mind being lost. Or confused. Or even scared.
All these years later, I’m used to it.
Paul warned me I would push away everyone I loved, that I would end up putting myself in harm’s way, that I didn’t do this to save others but to punish myself.
Paul was always a very smart man.
I spot the giant map for the MBTA system, follow the purple line with my finger and spot my target. Once more on track, I head to Murderpan.
CHAPTER 2
It’s four p.m. by the time I reach my first location. Stoney’s, the sign announces out front. The red backdrop of the two-story building is peeling, with the white lettering more of a suggestion than a statement. In other words, it matches its squat, derelict neighbors jammed shoulder to shoulder down both sides of the block. The sidewalk is broader than I expected and nearly empty this time of day. After some of the articles I’ve read, I would have expected to see gangs and dealers loitering