Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [56]
“Excuse me?”
“Is that where he met you? A bar or something?” the woman said.
“Oh, no.” My thoughts bounced from confusion to elation that I might have found someone who knew Dan. “I didn’t meet him. I mean, I have, but it was a long time ago. But—”
“Doesn’t matter,” the woman said, cutting me off. “It’s not important. What is important is our daughter, who he was supposed to pick up on Saturday, over two weeks ago. Did you know he had a daughter named Annie?” The woman’s voice bordered on angry.
“No. I didn’t. I—” I stopped short. Saturday, over two weeks ago. The night Caroline disappeared.
“Well, he does,” the woman continued, “and she’s still waiting for the bastard to call. So if he didn’t call his daughter, do you think he’s going to call you?”
“Look, I’m an old friend from the Midwest,” I said. I spoke fast, not wanting her to hang up. “I haven’t seen Dan in a very long time. If you could just give me his phone number, I’ll make sure to have him call Annie when I find him.”
“He’s hopeless. Don’t waste your time, girlfriend.”
“It’s not like that.” I could hear the pleading tone in my voice. I was desperate now for some real information. “If you could just let me know his address even.”
“He’s in Albuquerque now. And if you find him, you can tell him he’s an asshole.” And she hung up.
I replaced the phone on the receiver, my head buzzing. Dan hadn’t shown up two Saturdays before, the same day Caroline disappeared. And I was an aunt. I had a niece in Santa Fe named Annie.
15
I pushed through the crowd at Veronica’s, one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood, a dark, cozy place decorated with wood and warm colors of wine and mustard.
“A Stoli and tonic with lemon,” I said to the bartender, throwing my jacket over a tall stool.
I was early, but I wanted to get a drink, to sit silently at the front bar for a moment. I knew when Maddy got here, there would be no quiet. These regrouping sessions, as Maddy and I called them, were the closest thing to therapy I had in my life. Maddy would spend hours with me deciding whether I should cut my hair one inch or two, whether I should shop for a condo or continue to rent, whether I was really depressed or just had PMS. I would do the same for her. She was the nearest thing to a sister I had found.
The minute I sat down, though, with my back to the door, I felt uneasy, as if I could be watched without knowing it. I tried to convince myself that the feeling I had lately of being observed was just paranoia from my overloaded mind. But I couldn’t shake it, so I moved from my stool to another at the end of the bar where I could see Maddy when she came in. Or anyone else.
The bartender slid a thick, frosted highball glass in front of me. I took a long sip, letting the cool bitter of the vodka and the sweet tang of the citrus slide down my throat. After my drunken night in Woodland Dunes, I swore I would never drink another drop of alcohol again, but like other such promises, it had fallen away.
I stared down at the dark wood bar, thinking about the woman on the phone who’d clearly been my brother’s wife or girlfriend. She’d said that Dan hadn’t picked up his daughter last Saturday, the same day Caroline disappeared from Charleston. She hadn’t heard from him since.
When I called Albuquerque Information, I had received a listing for Dan Singer in that city. I copied the number down, as well as the address, and I called the number at least ten times, but there was no answer. Not even a machine.
I was scared suddenly, more scared than I had ever been. It was as if I’d just realized that for my whole life I had stood on sand that was packed hard. Not a solid-rock foundation, but one that allowed me to walk and go about some semblance of a normal life. But after rummaging into the past, the sand had blown about and disappeared, until I felt there was precious little to stand on anymore. If I didn’t have my father, my love for him, my belief in his goodness and judgment,