forceful or nosier, then maybe she would have felt able to confide in me about what was going on.
Maybe I could have helped her.
Maybe I still can.
I return the gun and the ammunition to the shoe box the same way I removed them—cautiously. I then cover the box with its lid and carry the whole thing downstairs to the kitchen, where I shove it in the cupboard under the sink. Better there than in the bedroom, where I’m certain it would keep me up all night.
I check my watch. It’s now almost eleven. Roughly ten hours since I found out Ingrid was gone. My family waited about that long to report Jane missing. It was still too late. One of the cops who came to our house even chastised us for taking so long to contact them.
There’s always a moment when worry turns to fear, he’d said. That’s when you should have called.
I’m already there. I crossed that threshold between worry and fear as soon as I found the gun. Which is why I grab my phone, take a breath, and dial 911. I’m connected immediately with a dispatcher.
“I’d like to report a missing person,” I say.
“What’s the person’s name?”
The dispatcher speaks in a dispassionate tone. A calmness that’s both soothing and maddening. A little urgency would make me feel better.
“Ingrid Gallagher.”
“And how long has Ingrid been missing?”
“Ten hours.” I stop, correct myself. “Since last night.”
Emotion at last seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. One I don’t welcome—incredulity.
“Are you sure?” he says.
“Yes. She left in the middle of the night. I didn’t hear about it until ten hours ago.”
“And how old is Ingrid?”
I say nothing. I don’t know.
“Is she a minor?” the dispatcher says, prodding.
“No.”
“A senior citizen?”
“No.” I pause again. “She’s in her early twenties.”
More doubt seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. “You don’t know her exact age?”
“No,” I say, adding a hasty, “I’m sorry.”
“So she’s not a relation?”
“No. We’re . . .”
Yet another pause as I think of the appropriate word. I wouldn’t call Ingrid a friend, exactly. Or even an acquaintance.
“Neighbors,” I say. “We’re neighbors, and she’s not answering her phone or texts.”
“What was her last known location?”
Finally, a question that’s easy to answer. “The Bartholomew.”
“Is that her residence?”
“Yes.”
“Are there signs of a struggle?”
“I’m not sure.” A weak, useless answer. I try to make up for it by adding, “I don’t think so.”
Now it’s the dispatcher’s turn to pause. When he finally speaks, his voice contains more than doubt and incredulity. There’s also confusion. And pity. And just a touch of annoyance to make it clear he thinks I’m wasting his time.
“Ma’am, are you sure she hasn’t just gone away for a few days?”
“I was told she moved out,” I say.
“That would explain why she’s no longer there.”
I wince at the dispatcher’s tone. The pity’s gone. So is the confusion. Only annoyance remains.
“I know it sounds like she just moved out and didn’t tell me,” I say, “but she left me a note telling me to be careful. And she left a gun. Which makes me think she was in trouble somehow.”
“Did she ever mention feeling threatened?”
“She told me she was scared,” I say.
“When was this?” the dispatcher says.
“Yesterday. And then she left in the middle of the night.”
“And you’re sure she never said anything else? Maybe on a different occasion?”
“Not to me, but we only met yesterday.”
And that’s it. I’ve lost him. Rightly so. Even I can hear how pathetic I sound.
“Miss, I understand that you’re worried about your neighbor,” the dispatcher says, his voice suddenly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a child. “But I really don’t know how to help you. You’ve given me very little information to go on. You’re not a family member. And, if you’ll pardon me, it sounds like you don’t even really know this woman. All I can do is politely ask that you hang up and free this line for callers with real emergencies.”
I do. The dispatcher is right. I don’t know Ingrid. But I’m not the sad, paranoid woman I sounded like during the call.
Something about this situation is very, very wrong. And I won’t know anything more than that until I locate Ingrid. The only thing I do know, made abundantly clear by that dispatcher, is that if I’m going to find Ingrid, I’ll have to do it all on my own.
20
Another night, another bad dream.
My family again. They’re still in Central Park, occupying Bow Bridge, all of them holding hands and smiling up at me.
This time, though, they’re