“You know, I’m sort of in the middle of a larger crisis here. I appreciated talking to you the other day, but I don’t think I have time for whatever you’re thinking about. Just get to the point or go.”
“You’re right. Of course.” She dug into the pocket of her shirt and brought out a pack of cigarettes. Her fingers shook as she dug one out and struck the lighter. “Sorry,” she said, blowing the smoke plume in the opposite direction of where I sat. Around us, normal life went on. A few doors up, our neighbors raked their leaves onto a large blue tarp. A child laughed somewhere, a bright, distant trilling. “This man,” she finally said, “the man from the sketch, you believe he’s the one who took your daughter from you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I think you’re right, Tom. I think he did.”
“What are you saying? Because of the flower? What?”
She shook her head. “Not because of the flower.”
“Then what?”
“Tracy,” she said. “Tracy Fairlawn.”
“What about her? Did you talk to her?”
“Not for a while,” she said. “But I’ve spent a lot of time talking with her in the past. She’s a very troubled young woman. When you and I met the other day, I was trying to protect her, to value her privacy, the confidentiality of the things she has told me over the last year.”
“Drugs?”
“Among other things.”
“Are you saying she’s not reliable? Or believable?”
“I think she’s believable, Tom. Especially about this matter.” She looked down at the burning tip of the cigarette as though she didn’t know how it had ended up in her hand. “Tracy knows this man, the one she saw in the club. She knows who he is.”
I held tight to the armrests of the chair. My neighbor dragged his tarp full of leaves out to the curb.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know it,” she said, her voice acquiring an edge. “I don’t.”
“Tracy sent me to you.” My words came out sharp, ringing through the afternoon air. A picture formed. “You two are doing this together, aren’t you? She sends me to you, and you lead me around by my nose—”
“I can only guess at Tracy’s motives, but the thought crossed my mind that she wanted me to communicate something to you on this account. She was right. I knew about this when you came to see me the other day. Then I saw the news in the paper. I couldn’t keep it to myself. I looked your address up in the phone book and came over here.”
“You’re quite a saint,” I said.
“I thought long and hard about whether I should get involved further,” she said. “About whether I should tell you. But if I had to guess, I think Tracy wanted me to tell you about this. I think that’s why she gave you my card and name. She has a difficult time talking about this issue, and she probably wanted to use me as a kind of proxy. I have incomplete information as it is, and it feels like—it is—a violation of the trust Tracy and I built.”
“Don’t make yourself out to be more important than you are,” I said. “You’re not a priest or a therapist. Now where is Tracy?”
“I told you—I haven’t been able to get ahold of her.”
“I’m calling the police.” I started to stand. “They’ll find her. They’ll come down on you, too.”
“That’s not the solution, Tom. And neither is this anger.”
I was still on the edge of my seat. “What else do you know? There’s much more to this story, and you know it. Spill it.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Goddamn it, spill it!”
“Have you seen that ghost girl lately, Tom?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Have you?”
I paused. “Yes, she was outside our house one night.”
“Did she say anything?”
I slid back in the chair. “I went after her, but she ran away.”
“Remember what I told you about that?”
“That sometimes we see what we want to see. That it’s a form of wish fulfillment to see that girl.”
“Right.” She dropped the cigarette and ground it out. “And it’s the same for Tracy.”
“Why would Tracy want to see what she saw in that strip club?” I asked.
“Not why she would want to see that man, but why would she want to tell her story. To you. Why would she care about that man being captured or revealed?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“You’ve met Tracy. Do you think that’s a primary motivation for her?”
I stood up. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone. “Get out of here,” I said to her. “If you’re not here to help—if you’re just here to talk in riddles—then get lost. I’m calling the police.”
“Tom?” she said.
“Fuck off.”
She reached out and put her hand on the phone. “Tom? Are you sure you want to know what Tracy knows?” She nodded her head toward the house. “Your daughter is home. She’s alive. When we talked, you were worried about her being dead. That was your fear. Well, you have your answer.”
“I’m calling,” I said.
She kept her hand on mine. I waited.
“Put the phone away,” she said.
I held on to the phone, but I sat down.