Chapter 9: Derek
The police called me that afternoon.
The officer's name was Reyes.
She was matter-of-fact and thorough, and she had clearly done some reading before she called me.
"We ran the name Derek Faulkner," she said.
"He's known to us.
There's an open investigation in another jurisdiction — I can't share the details, but I can tell you that your report has been forwarded to the relevant unit and they're very interested in speaking with him."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Not yet.
He's not at the address you provided.
We're working on it."
"My passport," I said.
"Is there any way to know if it's been used?"
"We've flagged the number with the passport agency and with border services.
If it's presented anywhere, it'll trigger an alert." A pause.
"Ms.—" she used my name — "I want to be straightforward with you.
If Faulkner has already used your passport to cross a border, the process of resolving that is complicated.
It doesn't mean it can't be resolved.
But it takes time."
"How much time?"
"Months, potentially.
Maybe longer." She paused again.
"But the flag is active.
That's the most important thing right now."
I thanked her and hung up.
I was sitting in Bennett's kitchen again.
He was at the counter, making sandwiches with the focused attention of a man who believed that food was a reasonable response to most crises.
He put a plate in front of me without asking.
"Well?" he said.
I told him what Reyes had said.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he sat down across from me.
"Months," he said.
"Maybe longer."
He was quiet for a moment.
"And the apartment?"
"They're packing.
I could hear it through the door."
"Good." He picked up his sandwich.
"And Marcus?"
I'd been thinking about Marcus all day.
About the three napkins covered in his handwriting, which I'd photographed and emailed to Patricia.
About the way he'd looked sitting across from me in that coffee shop — not the cousin who'd betrayed my trust, exactly, but something more complicated than that.
A man who'd made a series of bad choices and had known, somewhere along the way, that they were bad, and had kept making them anyway because stopping felt harder than continuing.
I understood that.
I didn't excuse it.
But I understood it.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
Bennett nodded like that was a reasonable answer.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" I said.
"Those two little girls.
Sitting on the floor watching that tablet.
They don't know any of this.
They just think they live there."
"They'll be all right," Bennett said.
"Children are more resilient than we give them credit for."
"I hope so."
"They will be." He said it with the certainty of someone who had watched enough of life to know the difference between a wound and a scar.
"Their mother is resourceful, I'll give her that.
She'll land somewhere."
"She'll do this to someone else," I said.
"Maybe.
But that's not yours to carry."
I looked at my sandwich.
I picked it up.
"Bennett," I said.
"Mm."
"Why did you take that photo?
You could have just called me.
Told me what you'd heard.
You didn't have to stand in the hallway and photograph them through the door."
He was quiet for a moment.
He set down his sandwich and looked at the table.
"Margaret died four years ago," he said.
"Eighteen years in this building.
She knew every neighbor by name.
She used to say that neighbors are the family you don't choose, but you get to keep." He paused.
"After she was gone, I thought about moving.
Smaller place, somewhere quiet.
But I stayed.
Because of the building.
Because of the people in it." He looked up.
"Because of you, partly.
You brought me soup when I had that bad winter flu.
You remembered her birthday for two years after she was gone."
I didn't say anything.
"So when I saw something wrong," he said, "I didn't call first because I wanted to be sure.
I wanted to give you something you could use, not just a feeling." He picked up his sandwich again.
"That's all."
That was all.
I looked at this man who had stood in a hallway with his phone and taken photographs because he wanted to give me something I could use.
"Thank you," I said.
It wasn't enough.
It was all I had.
"Eat your sandwich," he said.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
*You made a mistake going to the police.
You don't know who Derek knows.
May you like
Back off and this goes away.
Push it and it won't.*
