Stay With Me (16 page)

But that didn’t mean Morasco was going to believe that anyone would leave his perfect girlfriend—most of all her young, sweet, squeaky clean daughter. “Sorry,” she said.

He exhaled. “Fine.”

“Did Carver tell you where he met up with the woman he said was Maya’s mother?”

Morasco shook his head. “She dropped him off near Van Wagenen and Main. That’s all I know.”

“Did he say anything about her? What kind of clothes she was wearing? Where she was from? Her job?”

Morasco stared at the pavement. “I wish I had another chance with him.”

Diane looked at him. “Me too.”

He really wasn’t a bad guy. Probably not a bad cop, either. Just pussy-whipped. Diane’s felling of Bruce notwithstanding, being in love wasn’t good for investigative work. It made you impetuous and opinionated and sloppy. “I’ll try and get at him,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Good night, Detective Plodsky.”

Morasco headed to the far end of the parking lot, beeped open a car door, and slid in. Diane stared after him, thinking.

Half an hour into Brenna’s conversation with NYCJulie, Trent produced a twenty-ounce Red Bull from his messenger bag and cracked it open. Brenna looked at the clock. 2:30
A.M.
Julie told Brenna she was getting sleepy, which was understandable, and so they said their good-byes, Brenna mulling the information Maya’s online friend had given her, running it through her head.

Maya had joined the chat room in early October in the wake of the Neff case. It was around the same time Julie had joined—Maya having heard about it through Brenna’s involvement; Julie, of course, through the news. They had similar senses of humor and NYC in their screen names and so they bonded, despite their varying ages, Maya revealing feelings about the aunt she never knew, Julie discussing her lasting grief over her son, who’d gone missing nearly a decade ago.

Brenna had typed,
How does she feel about her aunt?

Honestly? She kinda hates her,
Julie had replied.
Well, not her aunt so much as her aunt’s effect on you.

Brenna cringed at the memory of the words. She’d known Maya felt as though she was in competition with Clea—with the lack of Clea, actually—and that she was always on the losing end. But she didn’t know Maya felt it that deeply.

She was trying to look for Clea,
Julie had typed.
She felt like if she found her for you, she’d finally have your full attention.

Brenna had thought of it immediately—the communication with Dufresne. But Trent had been the one to put it into words. “You think Maya is 3434?”

“Maybe,” Brenna had said. But for her it wasn’t a maybe. Brenna was nearly certain that Maya had been 3434, BrennaNSpector, whatever you wanted to call the person who had claimed to be her, who had been posting that picture on missing persons sites for the past two years at least, who knew that the picture was in Brenna’s drawer and had taken it out at least once since September so she could sketch it . . . and kill it (figuratively, anyway.)

It had to be Maya, which, when she recalled how BrennaNSpector had broken things off with Alan, made the type of sense that was chilling.

Well apparently, you’re not going to be e-mailing for a while because you’re in the midst of a family crisis.

Brenna had asked Julie:
Do you think Maya was unhappy enough to run away? Do you think she planned this ahead of time?

I don’t know,
Julie had typed.

Brenna thinks,
You do know though. Don’t you? You just don’t want to say . . .

“I’m going to check my e-mail—see if I got anything in response to the pics,” said Trent, perked up from the Red Bull. He moved over to his laptop, gulped from the can some more, and flipped it open.

When the chat room reopened following the server overload and shutdown, Julie and Maya had both sought it out again, mainly to find each other. When they did, they greeted each other like old friends, and before long, they were private messaging regularly, their conversation topics moving from their missing relatives to books and movies, to Maya’s school friends, boys, hopes and dreams and fears for the future . . .

Brenna had typed,
Maya ever mention a man named Mark?

NYCJulie:
A man? Not a boy?

SIKaren:
Man.

NYCJulie:
She told me about a boy named Miles. No men.

SIKaren:
What did she say about him?

NYCJulie:
She said he’s a great singer. Apparently, he’s got a whole room full of studio equipment in his apartment, and she thinks he’ll be famous. She clearly had a crush, but I was skeptical.

SIKaren:
She was in his apartment?

After a long pause, NYCJulie had replied:
For some class project, I think. They had to draw each other.

SIKaren:
You were close. She could confide in you.

NYCJulie:
It’s tough being an only child. I’m one, too. So I get it.

Yes.
Brenna had typed. She hadn’t been able to type anything more. “I should have gotten it, too,” said Brenna, an only child, too, but for her sister’s gaping memory. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” Trent tapped at his keyboard.

“Nothing,” said Brenna. “You want me to make up the couch for you? It’s getting late.”

Trent shook his head. “Nah.” He took another swig of Red Bull, images flashing on the screen. “Sleeping’s for wussies.”

Brenna looked at him, his eyes lit from the glowing screen. “Thanks.”

“She deleted a lot of song downloads,” he said. “I still don’t get why she stopped liking Bieber. His new stuff is good.”

“Kids change.” Her eyes went to the kitchen area, a memory seeping into her mind, February 16, 2009, 3:30
P.M.
Maya closing the refrigerator door and turning to her.
“I forgive you, Mom.”

“For what?”

“Not getting cheese sticks.”

“Crap, I didn’t have a chance. Work was . . .”

“It’s okay.”

Maya brushes past her, trailing a flowery scent. Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend perfume. She stops, kisses her on the cheek. “Don’t beat yourself up, Mom, Jeez. It’s only cheese sticks.”

“People change,” Brenna said.

“I still love you, Mom.”

The phone rang.

Brenna hurried into her office, checked the screen before answering. “Nick,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Anything?”

“Good and bad.”

“Good first.”

“Carver pulled through.”

She breathed out.
Thank you . . .
“Now the bad.”

“I talked to him, Brenna. But not for very long because I got pissed off again and he went schizo. Now they won’t let anybody in to see him.”

“Did you get anything?”

“Just . . . He said he got the phone from a woman.”

“A girl.”

“No,” he said. “Not a girl. Not Maya. A woman, who he seemed to think was Maya’s mother. He said he partied with Maya’s mother, and she gave him the phone.”

“Do you believe him?”

He took a deep breath. “When I was talking to him, I didn’t at all,” he said. “But now . . .”

“What changed your mind?”

“Danny Cavanaugh slipped me Mark Carver’s social,” he said. “I looked him up.”

“And?”

“He’s not on the sex offenders registry. Never been arrested for a violent crime. One drug arrest—dealing hash. When he was eighteen—that’s half his life ago. He got probation. A few years back, he was questioned in his brother’s death.”

“He was a suspect?”

“It was an overdose, Brenna. They both took a shitload of heroin. Carver’s brother died. He didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“He just . . . He doesn’t seem the type to steal a kid off the street.” He exhaled. “He doesn’t set off that feeling in me. Not now. Not on paper.”

“But he does seem like the type to party with some random woman and take a phone from her, no questions asked.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“I get it.”

“I wish I’d known about him earlier. I never would have fired. I wouldn’t have—”

“You know about him now,” Brenna said. “That’s something. He’s going to be okay. That’s something, too.”

“Brenna?”

“Yeah?”

“I wish . . . I wish I could make this all better.”

Brenna closed her eyes. She listened to his breathing. “I know you do,” she said.

They said their good-byes and hung up. Brenna stared at the phone, thinking about what he’d said. She punched in a number: Her mother’s.

She answered after several rings, her voice fogged from sleep. “Brenna?”

“Mom. When you got that call from Maya in the middle of the night . . .”

“Maya?”

“Yes, you said she called you by mistake last night.”

“Brenna, is something wrong?”

“I need you to tell me exactly what you heard.”

“What? What are you . . .”

“Did you hear a woman’s voice? A man’s?”

“I . . . I heard static . . .”

“And something else. You said Maya sounded wild.”

“I
said
that?”

Brenna gritted her teeth. “
Yes.
”

“Are you sure?”

“Mother, I’m always sure. Of everything. Always. You
know that
.”

“I . . . don’t know, Brenna. It was very late at night. I heard static. I thought it was you at first. I thought you were calling about your father . . .”

“Did you hear Maya’s voice?”

“Just static. What’s going on, Brenna? Why are you calling me at three?”

“I’m sorry to have woken you,” Brenna said. She hung up.

Brenna headed for her bedroom, hopelessness closing in around her. On the way in, she stopped in the bathroom. Stared into the mirror. “Where are you, Maya?” She said it to her reflection, but in her mind she could see only her daughter. Her daughter’s face, her daughter’s scared, shy smile. Her daughter out there somewhere in the freezing cold night, somewhere crying for help . . .

“
Where are you?
”

Brenna headed out of the bathroom, through the kitchen, and into the office area, where Trent still sat at his computer. “Anything?” she said.

He shook his head. “Homework mostly. She downloaded a birthday party invitation.”

“Larissa’s?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s coming up. February 2.”

“You’re a great mom.”

“Knowing dates doesn’t make me a great mom,” she said. “It just makes me weird.”

He looked up from the computer. “I didn’t say it because you knew the date.”

Brenna squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, ignoring the heat at the corners, at her throat. “You’re a good guy, Trent.”

She looked at her watch. Two fifty-five, it read, which made her recall that jolly bastard of a Christmas angel she’d talked to, back when she’d thought there must be some mistake, that Maya would be home any minute, that this had to be a dream, a bad one, and she’d wake up soon  . . . “
Don’t remember his name. Glenn? Gary? He trades off with me, which means he’ll be in after my shift’s over. Three
A.M
.”

Brenna threw open the closet, grabbed her coat and bag, opened the door.

She heard Trent’s voice behind her, “Where are you going?” She didn’t turn around to answer.

“Lindsay’s place.”

“Whose?”

“The Heather. From the picture. I’m going to talk to her doorman.”

Mark Carver couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t stay awake, either. His nose ran and his shaved head itched, bandages clinging to it, hairs already starting to poke through the skin. He wanted to slough it all off—the bandages, the hospital gown, the IVs, this whole night and his life and everything that came with it. His heart pounded. He was hot, then cold, then hot. He’d felt okay earlier, but that was because he’d still been under anesthesia.

That doctor.
Only acetaminophen for the pain. No morphine. No opiates
. That’s what he’d said.
Your heart will thank me
, he’d said.

I’m not thanking you, asshole.

This was killing Mark, this need. It was destroying him one molecule at a time. He wished he had told the doctor the truth, that he’d been doing oxy every day for the past couple of weeks—no, months—upping the numbers more and more because it took more and more to get him off or to even feel anything at all. But he didn’t want to get in trouble. Scratch that. He was in trouble. Big trouble. He didn’t want to get in any more trouble than he was already in. He saw the hate in their eyes, all over their faces, even that cop they had guarding the door to his hospital room, looking at him as though he was . . .

What do they think I am?

Mark thought about that other cop, the detective, the one who had shot him. He thought about the girl and how her phone was in his pocket and how that must have looked. Why hadn’t he explained? Why hadn’t he tried to explain instead of running?

Where is she?
The cop had asked. And all he could think of was that girl’s face, how frightened she’d looked . . .

“I don’t know her.” He said it out loud, his voice echoing in the hospital room. “I don’t know that girl.”

Weird, when the detective was in his room earlier, Mark had so much he wanted to say, but he hadn’t gotten any of it out. Mark had still been coming out of anesthesia. That was part of it, but there was also the way the guy had come at him with his eyes. The
hate
. Mark could feel the burn of it, when the thing was, the thing he wanted that detective to understand . . . Mark wasn’t a bad person. He wasn’t a monster. He’d asked to talk to the guy for a reason, for lots of
good
reasons, and he wished . . . he wished he’d been able to find the words . . .

An emotion barreled through him. Not a good one. He felt tears pressing against the inside of his skin. His nose ran. His eyes welled up.

“I didn’t hurt that girl.” Mark’s voice cracked and broke. “I’d never hurt anybody. And when you came up to me on the street, I swear . . . I didn’t even know where I was . . .”