Chapter 67
I knock on Jennifer and Frank’s door, with the notebook clutched in my free hand.
When no one answers, I knock again. While I’m waiting, I glance around, my gaze finally settling on the door across the hall.
Kalina’s door. An image of her and Sam in our bed flits through my mind.
Of their bodies locked in passion. My throat tightens.
I drag my eyes away and look down, focusing on the floor and trying not to think about everything I have lost.
At that moment, the door in front of me opens, and Frank is standing there. He’s leaning on a cane and slightly stooped over.
“Jordan. I’m sorry it took me so long to answer. Dang arthritis. Always plays up in cold weather.” A look of concern flashes across his face. I’m sure that his wife told him what happened between me and Sam. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, but well . . .” I realize that I’m flustered. I take a deep breath and pull myself together. “Can I speak to Jennifer? I have a question for her.”
Frank shakes his head. “Jennifer’s not here. She’s at one of those wine and paint evenings. She goes once a month with a couple of girlfriends from her old job. Maybe I can help you.”
I think about this for a moment. I’d feel more comfortable talking to Jennifer because we’ve gotten to know each other better, but I don’t want to wait, so I nod and let Frank lead me into the apartment.
It has a similar floor plan to mine, except that Frank and Jennifer’s apartment has accumulated the clutter that comes with living somewhere for a long time. The furniture is dated, and although I spot some pieces that might be antique, most of it just looks old and tired.
Frank leans his cane against the wall, then motions for me to take a seat on a floral-patterned sofa that reminds me of something my grandmother would have liked. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“A glass of wine, perhaps?”
It’s tempting, since I have to spend the night alone in the same apartment where Jackie disappeared, but I decline.
“You know what, I’m going to make you a cup of tea.” Frank starts toward the kitchen, because apparently a drink is required, even if I don’t want one. “Jennifer found a fantastic oolong at the organic market a few days ago. You’ll love it.”
“Honestly, I’m fine.” I just want to ask about Jacqueline.
“Nonsense.” Frank hurries toward the kitchen.
While he prepares the tea, I look around.
The first thing I notice is all the photographs.
They sit on the fireplace mantel and on the coffee table in a mix of metal and wood frames.
They hang on the living room walls in a variety of different sizes.
So many of them that I almost feel claustrophobic.
The photos have been taken at different times and in different places, but they share one similarity.
The slim, golden-haired girl. In some of them she is a child, in others she’s a teenager, then a twentysomething.
She’s sitting on the floor playing with toys, frolicking at the beach, posing between a much younger Jennifer and Frank as she graduates college.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this must be the daughter that Jennifer told me had died fifteen years ago.
Frank and Jennifer have fashioned this whole room, and perhaps the entire apartment, into a memorial to her.
When I glance at Frank, who’s busy on the other side of the kitchen island making our tea, it’s hard not to notice the sheets of paper with curling edges pinned to the fridge door.
Crude crayon drawings with stick figures and simplistic, boxy-looking buildings and vehicles. The drawings of a child.
I suppress a shudder. This is not healthy.
“Here you are, my dear,” Frank says, returning to the living room with two dainty cups resting on bone china saucers.
He places one down on the coffee table in front of me and sets the other on a side table next to a wingback chair, which he promptly sinks into with a sigh.
Then he goes to get back up. “I’m so sorry.
Where are my manners? I forgot to ask—would you like sugar or milk with your tea? ”
“No, thank you.” I try to ignore the unnerving gaze of their dead daughter from the dozens of photographs surrounding me.
“This is Amanda, our daughter,” Frank says, picking up a gold frame from the coffee table. “She died.”
I nod and say, “Jennifer told me. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. It was a long time ago.”
“How did it happen?”
“An accident. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and . . .” Frank’s eyes moisten. His voice cracks. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Sure. Okay.” I could kick myself for asking such a blunt question. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s fine.” Frank takes a long breath. “What did you want to ask?”
“There was a woman who lived in my apartment several years ago. Her name was Jacqueline Burke. Do you remember her?”
Frank is reaching for his teacup. He stops and slowly withdraws his hand, leaving the cup on its saucer. “I think you must be mistaken, my dear,” he says eventually. “No one of that name has ever lived in this building.”