air and went to the side door, where Cheryl had a private entrance that led to her second-story apartment.
She rang the buzzer and waited while all around her, leaves in impossibly bright colors of orange, yellow and red fell from the trees standing tall along the sidewalks and behind her in the small yard. Soon it would be winter. After this morning’s threat, she wondered what her life would be like then.
Two minutes passed, and no answer. She rang the buzzer again, waited, and then, when Cheryl didn’t answer, she decided they needed to just have it out so Cheryl could tell her off and so that Patty could apologize to her.
To her left, against the foundation, was a rock. Beneath that rock was the key to Cheryl’s apartment. Patty got it, unlocked the door and called up the stairs. “It’s me, Cheryl. I’m coming up. I know you’re angry with me, so let’s talk.”
There was no reply. She was ignoring her.
Fine.
She walked up the staircase, turned left into the kitchen and expected to find Cheryl sitting at her breakfast table having tea or coffee with a pissed-off look on her face. But she wasn’t there, though her cat, Blanche, was sitting on the window sill that overlooked the side yard. Patty kneeled down, called the cat over to her, and when she came, she noticed that her bowl of food was empty. So, Cheryl was still in bed, because if she was up, she would have fed Blanche by now.
The cat rubbed against her leg and Patty scratched its back before she went into the dining room and found it empty. Same for the living room, which caused her to pause because the lamps on either side of the sofa were on and the shades at the windows were drawn. Puzzled, she called out Cheryl’s name again, got no reply, and walked through the hallway that led to her bedroom, which also was empty. The bed was made, the lights were on, and on the bed were various outfits that Cheryl must have tried on the night before.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Cheryl hadn’t come home.
So, where was she? The Grind was a good eight miles from here, so she wouldn’t have walked. She could have taken a cab, but that obviously wasn’t the case because she’d be here now. Had she gone home with somebody? That went against everything she knew about Cheryl, but they had been a little drunk, so it was a possibility, though a slim one. She couldn’t see it happening. Ever since what happened to Cheryl at the hand of Mark Rand, she hadn’t been intimate with or close to any man. Patty knew that. For good reason, her friend wasn’t trusting of many people. She had acquaintances through work, but were any at The Grind last night? Did somebody she knew come out of the club and offer her a ride to their place, and then to her apartment in the morning?
None of it sounded plausible.
Standing here now, in her friend’s empty bedroom with the lights on and Cheryl’s bar clothes laid out on the bed, Patty felt an uneasiness that made her reach into her pocket for her cell so she could call Cheryl’s. The phone rang three times before the chill of Cheryl’s voice asked her to leave a message and that she would get back to her soon. The fact that she hadn’t come home and wasn’t answering her cell was enough to drive Patty out of the apartment and down the stairs so she could hurry around to the front of the house.
The Colemans were Cheryl’s landlords. They were among the few people in Bangor who were kind to Patty because they had come to know her over the years through Cheryl, their longtime tenant.
Once, in a moment of confidence, Mr. Coleman took her aside while she was waiting beside her car for Cheryl and told her in his own way that she could call on him for anything should she feel the need to do so. Since he was a lawyer, the undercurrent was clear. What he was telling her is that if she ever felt discriminated against at work because of “any gossip or lies that could affect you,” of which he must have heard, which humiliated her because she had developed a great fondness for him, he would help her.
She walked up the steps that led to the front door and rang