them open. Five heavy beats of quiet. And then a voice, muffled by the door: “Are you a reporter?”
“No.”
“You don’t look like police.”
“I’m not.”
“Amateur sleuth, then? I’m sorry, but it’s not my job to tell you about my wife.”
“No,” I say, speaking straight at the door as if it’s a person. “I… I think I…”
How do I explain this? I pause for so long that Rita attempts to finish my sentence.
“Know something about the case?” she provides. “You can call the tip line then. I’ve already had my hopes up with too many false leads.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. That sounds brutal. Like a cut that never scabs. But I’m not a false lead, I’m—“I’m Astrid’s old neighbor,” I say. “From Bleeker Street. We were friends growing up.”
I didn’t intend to lie. Not like I did to Father Murphy. But Rita’s suspicion rattled me and I felt the words tumble out. Now I find it’s a bit of comfort, actually—this distance from the truth.
“Sarah Yates?” Rita asks, and her voice sounds tentative.
I take a breath. Take a gamble. “Yes.”
“Oh. Wow.” There’s a sliding sound, the click of a chain, a dead bolt unlocking. Then Rita opens the door, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, dark flyaways framing her face. She squints at me.
“Sarah,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
It feels like an accusation.
“I, um… Well—” But she cuts me off.
“Sorry,” she says. “Astrid’s always telling me I come off a little blunt. I’m just surprised you’re here.” She holds her hand out for me to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Her grip is hard, almost aggressive, but when she lets go, she moves to the side, waves me into the house.
I step into an icy living room.
“Astrid’s told me a lot about you,” Rita says. “You’re pretty much the only person from high school she actually likes. She was bummed you couldn’t make it to the wedding.”
She gestures toward a chair. “You can sit down if you want.”
She plops down on a couch along the opposite wall and curls up her legs beneath her. The room is filled with the drone of an AC unit, but all I can focus on is how Rita’s looking at me. Her eyes are a mix of wary and welcoming. Like I’m somewhere between a stranger and a friend.
Guilt stabs between my ribs. I have to confess my lie. But she looks almost comfortable: legs crossed, hands on a pillow she’s pulled onto her lap, fingers playing with its fringe. And only a minute ago, she was so on edge I could feel the sharpness of her like a blade coming at me through the door.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says. “Did you fly out, just to see if you could help?”
Help. Yes. That’s what I’m here to do. I need answers from Rita. Answers that even Astrid’s memoir, carefully crafted for public consumption, might not be able to give. And I’ll get more answers, I think, by playing a woman she’s familiar with.
“Yes, I… was visiting family,” I improvise. “In New Hampshire. And I decided to come up here to see how you’re doing. If I can help you at all. Help Astrid.”
Rita chuckles dryly. “I wish. It’s been almost two weeks and the police have nothing. I showed them her usual running route, right? But there was no ‘visible disturbance’ to mark where she might have been taken.” She uses air quotes. Rolls her eyes. “And they can’t try to ping a cell-phone tower, because she left her phone at home.” She shakes her head. “I tell her all the time to take it with her, but she doesn’t like the weight of it when she runs. You know how stubborn she is.”
I nod. But only a little.
I glance around the room. There’s a fireplace on one end, its mantel holding up a single copy of Astrid’s book. A coffee table between us. A lone painting. And to the left of the couch where Rita sits, a hutch. The shelves are almost completely bare except for one photo in a frame: Rita and Astrid in wedding dresses, foreheads touching, arms wrapped around each other. Astrid has baby’s breath looped through her hair, which flares out red and wild against her satin gown. She was safe that day. Safe and smiling—with absolutely no idea that she’d be hauled back into the nightmare we apparently both lived.