Missing Persons by Clare O'Donohue Page A

had collapsed. It was exactly what I needed, but there was something artificial about it. And not just because it was fake. There was nothing in Julia that actually seemed sad about the disappearance of her friend. It had been a year—but is that enough time to get over the sudden and inexplicable loss of your best friend since childhood? Maybe Theresa’s brother had a good reason for mutilating Julia’s photos.

Twenty
    I t’s not just thumbs that separate us from the rest of the animal kingdom, it’s the ability to compartmentalize. All day I had thought mostly of the shoot, of Theresa Moretti and the people who knew her.
    Once I was home it rushed back over me and I couldn’t push it away. Frank was dead. And I still hadn’t figured out what I felt about him. My feelings, my lack of feelings, my confused and contradictory feelings—it was the sort of thing I would have indulged in when I was in my twenties. I would have called girlfriends and talked for hours. But excessively analyzing romantic relationships is like wearing a crop top. At some point, you realize you don’t have the stomach for it anymore.
    Not that it mattered. When I walked into the kitchen, I knew my feelings weren’t my biggest priority. Something in the room seemed out of place. The photo albums of Frank and me that I’d left on the floor were stacked more neatly than I’d left them, and the pictures of Theresa on the table looked to be in a different order. It was just weird enough that I walked around each room holding a frying pan, a useless weapon if there really was someone in the house. Of course there wasn’t. People don’t break into other people’s houses to see what kind of photos they have.
    “This is stupid,” I said. “I must have done this myself.” I was half convinced I had done it and forgotten, but just in case, I left the frying pan on the kitchen table, next to my laptop.
    In a nod to Frank, and because I was out of my own stuff, I made a cup of one of the green teas he had left at the house. It was good. Maybe I’d mocked him for nothing. I sat at the table and began hunting for the answers in my own personal true-crime show.
    Dr. Milton had said Frank’s death had been listed as undetermined. I looked online for what that meant and got nothing helpful. I did know a few people in the coroner’s office from past episodes of Caught! but none of them well enough to get a peek into Frank’s file. There was only one person who could give me more information than I already had.
    Now that Detective Podeski had supplied her last name, it was surprisingly easy to find Vera’s phone number and address. She lived in the Gold Coast neighborhood, the wealthiest in the city. It seemed an odd address for someone who had dressed as simply as Vera had the night we met. I guess she could be one of those people who lived in an expensive shoe box so she could impress others with her address. Though when I thought about it, Frank would never have gone for someone like that. His mother was someone like that, and Frank despised his mother’s shallowness.
    Voice mail picked up with a cheery greeting from Vera to leave a message, which I did. Nothing special. I just told her it was Frank’s wife, Kate, and I wanted to ask her some questions. What questions they would be I hadn’t yet figured out.
     
     
    An hour later, the doorbell rang. I answered, assuming it was someone wanting to pray for me, sell me something, or mug me. Instead it was Vera.
    “What are you doing here?”
    She was holding a large box and seemed about to drop it. Out of instinct, I reached out for it, and we carried it into the living room.
    “You called me,” she said.
    “I didn’t ask you to stop by. How do you know where I live any way? ”
    “I came here with Frank once.”
    “You did?”
    “I stayed in the car while he picked up some clothes.” She smiled a friendly, neighborly smile. “You have a great place. You have really nice taste. I love