Ash
Well, this sucks.
Not that I don’t get why Mrs. Baumgarten is so upset. My wallet’s been stolen a few times, and while I wouldn’t say that left
me feeling “violated” like the old lady is saying she feels, it was still a huge pain in the ass.
But Rochelle at the rental place says the old lady was really scared . . . scared enough to go next door to the neighbor’s
for help.
Just my luck that the neighbor she chose was Francesca Giovanni.
As if this isn’t bad enough, Mrs. Baumgarten then tried to get Francesca to do an exorcism or something. Apparently, she thought
Francesca was a parapsychologist, and that the place is haunted.
Francesca Giovanni. The old lady asked Francesca Giovanni to do an exorcism.
Francesca Giovanni is a doctor. I know because I found her page online—not that I was stalking her, or anything. I was just curious. She’s my neighbor, after all.
I’ve overheard her a few times when she and her ex—who I like to call Dr. Dick, because he is one—were out on their back deck,
drinking coffee or grilling or whatever, and didn’t notice me over on the deck next door, thanks to all the trees. They were
always talking about scientific studies and books I’ve never even heard of. Never once did I hear them talking about tacos,
or other people, or whatever new spy drama just dropped on Netflix like my friends and I do. Francesca’s clearly very smart.
But Dr. Giovanni not only has brains, she has beauty, too, with those huge dark eyes and all that long brown hair. Too bad
she wears it pulled back so tightly into a single braid—although it’s a good style for a swimmer. I’ve caught sight of her
in her bright red swimsuit a few times, heading down the steep wooded hill in the back of our houses to the lake for her daily
early morning laps. I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t help myself. I have to watch as she dives into the water, then swims so hard for Center Island in her very functional and not-at-all-sexy swimsuit,
that long, tight braid trailing behind her.
I don’t know what Dr. Dick was thinking, leaving a woman like that. I heard he had a piece on the side all along, and that
he’s run off with her to sail around the world or some shit.
This doesn’t surprise me, since Dr. Dick is an actual dick. I’m positive he’s the one who snuck over and cut the wires to my outdoor speakers—twice. I’m glad Francesca got rid
of him. The first thing he said to me that morning we met was, “Please don’t let your Japanese knotweed creep into my yard.
It’s an invasive species, you know.”
I have no idea what Japanese knotweed is, and I don’t care.
All I know is that “his” yard looks a lot better since Dr. Dick went away.
Francesca’s obviously a fan of sustainable landscaping, since she seems to be letting the place go back to its natural state—leafy and wild, like the woods in the nature preserve. It looks great.
Almost as great as she does.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t even know I’m alive. But she’s going to know who I am now, thanks to Mrs. Baumgarten.
Is this the way I was hoping to meet Francesca Giovanni? No, it is not.
I don’t even know why I’m stressing so much over what she thinks of me. She’s not exactly my type. For one thing, she’s way
too serious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.
And for another, she’s way too tall. I know it’s sizeist, but I’ve always liked it when a girl has to tilt her head up to
look at me. The best are those small, giggly girls you can lift up and sling over your shoulder and carry around—which is
definitely not Francesca Giovanni. She’s nearly as tall as I am. And somehow she gives off the impression that if any guy ever tried to
lift her up, she’d knee him in the balls.
Which I’m embarrassed to say only makes me want to get to know her more. I love a challenge. And I’ve been told (by my ex,
Nicole) that I’m a pretty charming guy. “Funny and charming” were her exact words.
But I’ve never had a chance to show Francesca my charming or funny side because she’s never so much as acknowledged my existence, even though I’ve tried so hard to get her to notice
me. I thought for sure when I bought the truck she’d say something to me. Everyone notices that truck.
But not Francesca.
Oh, well. I’ll head up to West Harbor as soon as I can and apologize to her. Maybe I’ll even bring her flowers or muffins or something. Isn’t that what neighbors do?
But first I have to find Emma Bridle.
I know it’s weird for a financial advisor to have a side hustle, but I was born with what my friends and I jokingly refer
to as “a particular set of skills.” I’ve always been good at finding lost things—people, pets, wallets, keys, paperwork, you
name it. If it’s lost, I’m going to find it, and everyone back at Olympus knows it.
Which is why I wasn’t too surprised when my boss Guy burst into my office a few weeks back, slammed a copy of the New York Post onto my desk, and said, “Find her,” while pointing to Emma’s photo on the front page.
I’d lifted the paper and looked the photo over. Because I love a challenge so much, if someone—particularly my boss—asks me
to find someone, I’m never going to say no—at least, not right away.
But I’ve been doing this a long time, and one thing I’ve learned is that not everyone who is missing wants to be found. Maybe
they haven’t contacted their loved ones for a reason: Maybe they don’t like them. Maybe their dad, like mine, is a douchebag,
and they don’t want to be found by him. Or maybe they just need a break.
That’s why my first question is always: “Are we sure they want to be found?”
“Yes,” Guy said, tapping on the young woman’s photo. “It’s extremely out of character for her to disappear like this. And
because she’s over eighteen and there’s no sign of foul play, the police don’t seem to be putting much effort into finding
her.”
“Hmmm.” I’d stared down at the full-color photo. The headline “Witch Way Did She Go?” was emblazoned across it, a reference to the fact that Emma is known to be an enthusiastic follower of witchcraft and magic communities online.
“This is the one who disappeared in West Harbor.” I don’t follow the news too much, but even I had heard about this girl.
“Correct.”
“Why is she so special? I thought there were a bunch of girls who—”
“This one is family.” Guy’s hand smacked down onto Emma’s photo. “Second cousin, twice removed.”
“Does she know that?”
“I doubt it. But I’m told her parents are devastated.” Guy tapped on the photo. “So I want you to find her.”
“And we definitely think something bad happened to her? Because I’ve got to be honest, I get the feeling that she’s missing
because she wants to be, not because she’s being held against her—”
Guy was having none of that. “No.” Tap. “This has gone on long enough.” Double tap. “Find. Emma. Bridle.”
So that’s what I’m going to do. It’s kind of convenient, in a way. After all, I own a house in the same town in which Emma
was last seen . . . a house that happens to be right next door to Dr. Francesca Giovanni, to whom it appears I owe an apology.
So in a way, I guess I should be thanking Mrs. Baumgarten. Because of her, it looks like I’m finally going to have an excuse
to talk to Francesca Giovanni.
First though? I have to find Emma Bridle.