Nick

The call comes in just after three, two days after our museum date. I’m out of breath, fresh from the gym, and my “Hello?” comes out more forceful than intended.

“H-hello?” It’s a nervous female voice—one I don’t recognize. “Is that Nick Carter?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And, uh... Are you the Nick Carter who knows Joey Petrov’s mom? Elina Petrova?”

I almost trip over my own feet. My gym bag hits the ground. “Yes—who’s this?”

“Oh, thank God—you’re the ninth Nick Carter I’ve tried! I was starting to think—uh, sorry!” I hear fast, panicked breathing on the other end. “It’s just, Miss Petrova was supposed to pick Joey up from preschool three hours ago, and no one can reach her. Mrs. Dz—Dzoh—ah...her emergency contact said she’d been seeing a lot of you, so I thought you might’ve seen her.”

I flash back to our last goodbye. But...she wrecked my shirt. She can’t have— What am I thinking? There’s no jinx. Everything’s fine. She’s stuck in traffic. Her phone’s dead. We’ll see each other tonight, and laugh our asses off at how for one terrible moment, I thought....

No. I’m not even putting words to it.

“I haven’t seen her,” I say. Something else occurs to me: “Is anyone coming for Joey?”

“His grandpa’s on his way.”

Okay. Okay—that’s good, at least. “And... Has anyone called the cops?”

“The cops?”

“Yeah. It’s probably nothing, but she has an ex, kind of a stalker type. I don’t know if he’s dangerous, but I’d say it’s at least worth having them swing by and check on him. Just in case.” What the fuck was his full, real name? She told me—it was— “It’s Giuseppe Bentivoglio, but he goes by Joe.”

“Oh...oh, yeah. He’s on our no-pickup list. I’ll do that. I’ll call right now. Thanks.”

“Sure. Let me know if you hear anything, or if there’s a problem with Joey being picked up. My phone’s always on.”

I hang up the phone and pick up my gym bag. And stand there, feet rooted to the ground: where was I going? I glance at my watch, as if I’ll find the answer there. Three hours—it’s only been three hours. A lot of things can make a person three hours late, but... Damned if I can think of many that would also prevent a “Hey, I’m running late!” call. Lina’s not the type to drop the ball when it comes to her kid.

Her kid—that’s right. Katie. I was picking her up from school. She’s got that piano exam. Or—no. That’s next week. Today... We’re getting her a new winter coat. Because I bumped an open bottle of nail polish onto her warmest one. I toss my bag in the back seat and get going, before I wind up leaving my own kid hanging.

My phone doesn’t ring all the way to Katie’s school. It keeps right on not ringing through store after store, rack after rack of coats that don’t meet Katie’s standards. By the time she’s settled on a flared red wool thing that strikes me as way too sophisticated for a nine-year-old, it’s five o’clock and I’m seriously starting to worry.

Maybe the playgroup lady forgot to mention she’d called me. Maybe Lina’s back in the arms of her family, having rich Russian snacks with Vanya and Joe.

Katie’s busy checking out fuzzy mittens, so I give her a try. Straight to voicemail. I hang up and text her instead: hey, you ok? joe’s teacher was looking for you. ended up calling me.

I watch the screen, but no little dots pop up to indicate she’s typing.

“Dad, can I get these?” Katie plops a pair of black cashmere mitts directly onto my phone. I rub them between my fingers: nice and soft.

“Yeah, go ahead.” I look her up and down—anything missing? Can’t tell. “Need anything else? Boots? Earmuffs?”

“Ew, so dorky!”

“What?”

“Earmuffs.” She wrinkles her nose. “Can we get avocado melts?”

“Yeah—yeah, just... At least pick out a hat first.” I don’t want her out there with nothing on her head when the cold settles in.

“I have a million hats.” She gives me a funny look. “What’s the matter with you? You’re, like, glued to your phone. Did that lady from the museum ghost you?”

“No, she didn’t ghost me.” At least, I don’t think she did.

“Keep telling yourself that, Dad.”

“Hey, c’mon—it’s not nice to mock people’s suffering.” I can’t help but check my phone one more time. Katie treats me to a theatrical eyeroll. I resolve to quit looking at my phone, at least till we’ve eaten. What is it they say about a watched kettle? Probably applies to phones, too.

Halfway through our avocado melts, my phone finally rings. I snatch it to my ear so fast I don’t even have time to check who’s calling.

“Hello?”

“Ah...yes. Hello.” It’s a man on the other end—a man with a thick Russian accent. Shit. No chance this is good news. “Yes: this is Ivan Vasiliev—Vanya. Lina’s father. I, ah...I am told you are friends with her?”

“Yeah. Yeah—is she all right?”

There’s a lot of noise in the background—people shouting, milling around. None of it sounds good. “We’re at the police station, her mother and I. They’re not listening to us. Lina doesn’t do this. She never is late. So I’m asking, anything you know—anything she’s said—she was with you this morning?”

“No, not this morning. We had plans for tonight, but I haven’t heard from her since yesterday.” I look up. Katie’s stopped eating. I swivel in my seat to hide the expression on my face. “You want me to come down there? Maybe I can talk to them, or—“

He cuts me off with a forceful tchah sound. “No use. They say, well, she’s adult—we have to wait a whole day. Adults don’t have parents who worry? Agh!” He hangs up on me. Can’t blame him: he’s got enough on his plate. I blow out a long breath.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“I’m....” How much do I tell her? “I’m not entirely sure.” I force a smile. “Probably nothing. Lina’s just running a little late, and her dad wanted to know if she was with us.”

Katie’s face falls. “Sorry for making fun of you earlier.” She pushes her pickle toward me like a peace offering. “Here. I know you like her. I liked her too.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” I say, as much for my benefit as Katie’s.

But the evening wears on, and nobody calls or texts. Midnight comes and goes. I check and recheck my phone more times than I can count, but the battery’s always charged; the ringer’s always on. I haven’t missed so much as a Facebook alert.

Some time between the wee hours and the ass crack of dawn, I give up on sleep. It’s no use: every time I start drifting off, I swear I feel my phone vibrate next to my pillow, and I’m back on high alert. I give in and fire off another text: you end up getting home ok? hope I’m not waking you! :-)

This time, she starts typing right away. Relief floods over me, so powerful my head swims. And then... It stops. I wait thirty seconds, a minute. It doesn’t start again.

I’m getting a sick feeling about this.

I know you’re there. I saw you typing. ;-)

Nothing.

listen, if I did something wrong, if you don’t want to talk to me, fine. just tell me you’re ok.

This time, the reply’s almost instant. I stare, stunned.

take a hint bernie madoff scum

ure yesterdays news

bubye

Bernie Madoff... What?

who the fuck is this? Whoever it is, they’re not even trying to type like her.

who the fuck you think?

A strange, grim calm settles over me. This fucker wants to play? I’ll make sure texting me back is the worst mistake he ever makes. I switch over to my laptop to reply.

I know who you are.

I know WHERE you are.

tap to see how.

I drum my fingers on my leg. This guy seems like a class-A dumbass, but there’s a chance he at least knows not to download anything from an unknown sender. Almost a minute ticks by, and—hallelujah! Bait taken. I’m definitely talking to a moron.

He keeps texting, mocking me for sending him a broken file, while I wait for the malware to finish installing itself. I’m on a weird kind of high, hopped up on exhaustion and adrenaline. Got a song in my head—Rat in the Kitchen. I’m tapping my foot to the rhythm, singing off-key. Feels like a screw’s come loose in my head.

An alert from my laptop snaps me out of my fugue. Two clicks later, I’m looking at Lina’s phone interface. Activating the camera doesn’t help much. All I can see is someone I recognize from the news stories as Joe Bentivoglio pecking at the screen, no doubt peppering me with abuse. BFD; already knew it was him. I take a screenshot anyway, while I wait for him to put down the phone. The second he does, I navigate to the GPS. Elsinboro—what the hell’s out there? I screenshot that, too, archive her phone to my laptop, and shut down the connection.

Now the cops’ll have to do something.