Day One
Benny Abbott
The detectives standing inside Joy’s bathroom are so far apart in age I almost ask if it’s Bring Your Grandson to Work Day.
The younger of the two, Detective Price, has the nebulous jawbone and pliant skin of someone who hasn’t yet grown out of his baby face, on which he wears a constant smirk, probably in preemptive defense of said face.
I instantly dislike him and focus all my attention on the senior detective, Keller, a woman with braided white hair, striking amber eyes, and the asterisk lip wrinkles of a smoker.
“Walk me through this one more time,” she says, pulling a latex glove from her pocket. “You were here last night.”
I glance back at Mallory, who’s hovering by the bedroom doorway, palms pressed to her abdomen like she’s suffering a stomachache. “Briefly. Thirty minutes tops.”
The glove goes on with a snap. Keller glances at Price, who’s been taking notes off to the side. “During which time your friend announced she wants a break from work.”
“Yes.”
“Did she say why?”
“No. She just said it was complicated, and that she would explain later.”
“Could she and her husband have taken a last-minute getaway?”
I shake my head. “They wouldn’t have left Potsie behind.”
“Maybe they had a neighbor watching him and he got out.”
“Joy would’ve left him with me. It’s not…” I shake my head again. “No. It’s not possible.”
Keller examines the empty window frame. “What did you say your work was, exactly?”
I stifle a sigh. I’ve already explained this. “We’re podcasters.”
“That’s your full-time job?” She says this as if it’s cute that we consider this an occupation.
“They’re actually pretty famous,” Mallory chimes in.
This gets Keller’s attention. Keller keeps her eyes trained on me as she exits the bathroom. “What did you say it was called?”
“This Story Might Save Your Life.”
She pulls back Joy’s white down comforter with her gloved hand. Flips over the pillowcases. “That’s the title?”
I can feel the conversation slipping out from under me. “It’s a comedy survival podcast. Every week has a different theme.”
“What’s this week about?” Price asks.
I tell them.
“Whales,” Price says, deadpan. “This is supposed to be funny?”
It’s clear I need to explain. “It’s about the delivery.” I shrug. “There’s a lot of ad-libbing.”
“Huh.” Expressionless, Keller turns to Mallory. “And what’s your role?”
“Assistant producer.” Mallory swallows. “I do some audio engineering. Scheduling. I coordinate the remote staff. That kind of thing.”
“Remote staff?” Keller asks. “What kind of remote staff?”
Mallory counts them off on her fingers: “Research assistant, merch team, webmaster, and social media manager. All part-time.”
“Have any of them been unhappy lately? Anyone ask for a raise they didn’t get, anything like that?”
I cut a questioning glance at Mallory.
“No,” Mallory says firmly.
“Any fights with family? Money problems?”
“I wouldn’t say problems, exactly.” I rub the back of my neck, aware that my hand has begun to tremble. “We’ve been in negotiations for a pretty significant distribution deal with Apex Plus, and it’s been dragging out, so that’s been stressful.”
A flicker of surprise passes over Keller’s lined face. “The Apex Plus?”
Nodding, I briefly explain that the entertainment conglomerate is expanding its purview, hoping to make a big splash in the podcasting pool with a few chart-topping names.
“Chart-topping, huh?” Keller says. “How significant a deal are we talking?”
I watch Mallory flatten herself against the wall. “In the eight-figure range,” I say.
Keller coughs. I can see the wheels turning in Price’s head as he works through all those zeros.
“Low? High?” Keller says when she recovers.
“Thirty.”
“Million?” Price asks.
I nod.
Keller lets out a long, throaty whistle.
It’s a shocking number, I’ll be the first to agree.
When they presented the deal a few months ago, my eyes bugged straight out of my head.
But it’s since been one delay after the other, and I’m beginning to wonder if it will actually happen.
Doubt is easier to hold on to than hope. “We’re still negotiating.”
“And yet Joy wants to take a break from the podcast.”
I confirm this with a miserable shrug.
“I’m sorry,” Price says, shaking his head. “This ad-libbing … this whale stuff. This is worth thirty million dollars?”
“People love them,” Mallory says. “They have fans with a capital F.”
“About that.” I clear my throat, ready to move on.
When I asked Joy why she wanted to take a break from the podcast, she insisted it had nothing to do with the topic I’m about to broach.
But that was then, and now she’s missing, and I can no longer convince myself the two are not related.
Watching Keller open a dresser drawer, I say, “Joy has a stalker.”
Keller shuts the drawer and crosses her thin arms. I have her full attention now.
“We don’t know who he is, but he claims to be our biggest fan. Every time she leaves the house, there will be ten pictures of her just … you know. Buying bread or whatever.”
“Where, the tabloids?”
I shake my head. “Socials.”
I explain that we block him without fail, but it does nothing to deter him.
He just changes his account. And then another ten pictures will show up the following day.
“Could be my neighbor Ted. He’s a paparazzo, and he took a pretty unflattering video of Joy that went viral six weeks ago.
” My chest swells with anger at the memory.
“But that was the only time we ever caught him in the act.”
“And you’ve never seen anyone else? No other cameras, no other paparazzi?”
“People have taken pictures of us before, sure, but this is different. This is…” I search for the word. “Unrelenting.”
“And these photos—they’re just Joy? There are no pictures of you?”
“Xander’s in them sometimes. But yeah. Ninety percent of the time, it’s just Joy.”
“Have you reported this to the police?”
“Xander has,” I say. “Multiple times. But nothing’s ever come of it. They say it doesn’t fit the definition of harassment or something.”
Keller’s eyes run all over the bedroom, then return to me. “And no images have gone up since she disappeared?”
“None.”
“Interesting.”
I nod, although interesting isn’t the word I would choose.
“There’s one other thing.” I feel like we’re already getting into the weeds, but I would be remiss to not bring it up.
“A few months ago, one of our ad partners got in trouble for shipping out toxic food. An energy shake company. Something in the protein powder was making people sick.”
“How sick?”
“Very sick.” Hanging my head, I explain that dozens of consumers landed in the hospital with toxin poisoning.
And even though we had no idea we were promoting a harmful product, not a clue, people blamed us just the same.
“We’re survival podcasters, you know? We had to issue public apologies, find new ad partners. It got pretty ugly.”
“So you’re telling me…” Keller inhales noisily. “So you’re telling me there could be dozens of people who are angry with you?”
“We think the worst of it is over, but … yeah.” I swallow nervously. “Or more.”
Sucking her teeth, gaze held on me, Keller plucks the handheld from her belt. “And the narcolepsy? Have there been any alarming developments of late?”
“Not that we’re aware,” I say. “But it can be pretty unpredictable if not well managed. She never messes with her schedule. Not unless something is wrong.”
“All right.” Keller exchanges a glance with Price. “That’s enough for now. I’m calling in a team to process the scene.”
“Wait.” Mallory pushes off from the wall. “Really? You’re taking this seriously? You really think something happened to them?”
“We were never not taking this seriously.” Keller is already walking away. Over her shoulder, she says, “Go upstairs. I’ll have more questions for you in a bit.”
MALLORY AND I sit side by side on the green microsuede couch upstairs as we wait for our own personal episode of CSI to begin.
“This is bad,” Mallory keeps saying, rocking in place. “This is bad.”
I agree. This is bad. “We should’ve called the cops right away.”
Mallory straightens at the sound of Keller and Price ascending the stairs.
They take the wing chairs to either side of the coffee table and, without ceremony, give us the lowdown: they’ll be putting out a BOLO, tracking credit cards, pinging cell phones.
A team will be canvassing the neighborhood.
The house will take anywhere from a few hours to a few days to process, depending on what evidence they find.
I stare at the Batchelder-tile fireplace, the one Joy mistakenly called a “bachelor” fireplace until Xander corrected her in his singsongy accent. All at once, it’s too real. I want to cover my ears. I want it to stop.
Keller releases a phlegmy cough into her elbow. Her amber eyes study us before she reaches for her phone. “I took a minute to check their socials while I was downstairs.”
She shows us the screen. On it is Joy, all teeth and chunky brown bangs, single dimple on full display, snuggling on this very couch with a golden-haired Xander. Caught mid-laugh, they look like models posing for a furniture ad. “Is this a good picture of them?”
My heart pangs as I nod.
Within an hour, technicians arrive in gloves and booties, hairnets and jumpsuits.
My fingerprints are taken. Mallory’s fingerprints are taken.
My headache fires up like an emergency roadside flare, and I start seeing dots; I realize I haven’t eaten all day.
I want to leave, and I want to stay, and I can’t stay because the house is now being treated as a potential crime scene, and I can’t leave without doing one thing.
“I left my bag in the office,” I say when it’s time for us to go.
Keller tells Price to escort me, but I’m downstairs before he’s out of his chair.
There are sounds coming from Joy’s bathroom, where at least two members of the tech team are working.
My pulse thunders as I quickly grab what I need from the recording room.
By the time Price joins me, I’m rubbing Fonzie’s shiny ducktail for good luck.
“Where do I know that guy from?” he asks.
I turn to him, heart still pumping with adrenaline. It’s an innocent enough question, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to explain.
Before Mallory and I leash the dogs, I catch Keller for one last question. “Should I make an announcement? On the podcast? In case our listeners have any information?”
“I can’t stop you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” Keller shakes her head for emphasis.
I thank her and promise to be in touch.
It’s dark outside when Mallory and I exit onto the street.
In the most abstract sense, I’ve been aware of the light changing through the windows, but it still feels like a betrayal.
The world shouldn’t be spinning on its stupid axis as if nothing has changed.
My head pounds as we let the dogs into the back of Mallory’s Jeep.
They’re excited; they think they’re going on an adventure.
I take the passenger seat and wait for Mallory to get in.
She buckles up, fixes the mirrors. The Jeep is quiet except for the dogs panting in the back, and I’m about to ask why we’re not moving when she slams her hands against the steering wheel. “Fuuuuck.”
I exhale all the air from my lungs. “I know.”
Eventually, she starts the car. Before putting it into drive, she turns to me. “What’s that?”
I look down at the swag bag cradled in my lap. “Just my things,” I lie.