Don't You Cry by Mary Kubica

phone,” he suggests, but I shrug my shoulders and say, “Can’t get in. I don’t have her password.”
    Unless Esther’s family calls us directly, that’s a dead end. But Ben, not willing to concede defeat, says to me, “I’ll see what I can dredge up.” He gives me a wink and says, “I have connections,” though I doubt he does. More likely he’s handy on the internet and has a log-in for LexisNexis. That’s about the only bonus of working for a law firm, access to a database that allows for a search of public records and background checks.
    I’m feeling frustrated, to say the least, like I can’t do anything quite right. I’m not one to cry, but for a whole two seconds I think that’s exactly what I’d like to do. I’d like to smash my face into my Subway napkin and cry my eyes out. But that’s when Ben reaches across the table and runs a brisk hand across mine. I try not to read more into it than there is—just a friendly gesture—but it’s hard not to completely liquefy when he says to me, “I doubt Esther’s mad at you. You’re best buds,” and I think to myself that I thought we were, I thought Esther and I were best buds. But now I’m not so sure.
    â€œSo you’ll call the bookstore and I’ll hunt down Esther’s mom. We’ll find her,” he promises. “We will.” And at this I realize I like the sound of his voice, the take-charge, no-nonsense way he’s made this task his own, and I smile because my lone manhunt for the missing Esther Vaughan has now become a two-man job. And I’m quite pleased with my partner in crime.

Alex
    I stand at the door to Ingrid Daube’s house, noticing the way the yard snowballs with fallen leaves. I make note of this: bring a rake. Rake Ingrid’s leaves. It’s the least that I can do.
    It’s not like she can do it herself because that would involve going outdoors and that isn’t about to happen. The snow will come soon. I don’t want her grass to die.
    I carry two paper sacks in my hands. In my pocket is her change, a dollar and seventy-three cents. I have one bag in either arm. I lift up a leg and depress the doorbell with a knee, waiting for Ingrid to answer my call.
    Outside there is sun. It’s not warm—far from it, in fact—but there is sun. The day is crisp. The gulls are clamorous this morning, making a rumpus. They soar overhead in their colonies, perching on the roofs on the town’s buildings and awnings.
    When Ingrid opens the door, there’s a frowzy look to her. Hair mussed up, she’s still in a nightgown and robe. Her skin lacks makeup, and there are trenches in the folds of her skin, deep marionette lines made visible without the camouflage of makeup. One thought and one thought alone comes to mind: Ingrid looks old.
    She says to me, “Good morning,” and I say, “Good morning” back. But today her voice is clipped, and she ushers me in quickly, pushing the door closed against the weight of the wind. She does it in a hurry, trying hard to keep the outside air out. This is Ingrid sometimes. Sometimes the fear of the outside world starts and ends at the doorsill, and so long as her feet are behind the threshold, she’s A-okay. But other times she fears the air itself: germs, pollen, pollution, smoke, breath and whatever other horrors the air may hold. Today is apparently one of those days. She pulls me in by the arm—eyes doing a quick sweep of the street outside to make certain I haven’t been trailed, that the wind isn’t lying in wait behind me, ready and waiting to attack—and slams the door at once, latching the lock and the dead bolt, too.
    And then she takes a deep breath, exhales and smiles.
    Phew, says that smile. That was a close call.
    Ingrid has good days and Ingrid has bad days, but it really isn’t any of my business which is