Shadow of Doubt (9 page)

I

pushed open the door to my father's loft.

“Robbie!” my dad said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Surprise?
I thought.

The weekend of the twenty-ninth, I was supposed to stay at his place. I wondered if he'd forgotten. As for the pleasant part, a couple things told me that he maybe wasn't being entirely truthful about that. The first was the way he looked at Vernon Deloitte, who was sitting opposite him at the kitchen counter. Vern is an ex–police officer like my father. The two of them are business partners. My dad had given Vern one of those guarded glances that cops give each other when they've been talking business and a civilian suddenly arrives on the scene. The second thing was the way Vern immediately flipped shut the Moleskine notebook that had been lying open on the counter in front of him. He greeted me with a great big hello while slipping the notebook into his jacket pocket.

“I thought you and Ben were going out tonight,” my dad said.

“We were.”

“Problem?”

“Something came up,” I said. Ben had called me right after school and apologized. He said he had to pick something up downtown. He said it was important—couldn't wait. “We're getting together tomorrow instead.”

My father glanced at Vern before flashing me one of those charming smiles that always irritate my mother. “Does this mean I'll have the pleasure of your company for supper, Robbie?”

“Unless you and Vern are working on something,” I said.

“Not at all,” my father said. “Vern was just on his way out.”

On cue, Vern stood up. I bet they even thought they were fooling me. I dropped my backpack near the door, pulled off my boots, and hung my coat in the closet. As I was shutting the closet door, I saw Vern hand my dad a couple sheets of notebook paper, which my dad slipped into the napkin drawer. I turned away so that they wouldn't know I had seen. When I glanced at them again, Vern was pulling on the jacket that had been draped over the back of his chair. My dad and I went down to La Folie, the gourmet restaurant that occupies the main floor of my father's building. In addition to being the restaurant's landlord, my father was good friends with the owner. A while after we ordered, I said, “Ted's really happy that you found his daughter. They got together yesterday—at my school.”

“I know,” my dad said.

Of course he did. My dad seemed to know everything.

“He told Mom that he thinks you're a modern-day Sherlock Holmes for finding her. I can't think of a better daughter for Ted. Ms. Denholm is really nice. Everyone likes her.”

“Mmmm,” my dad said. His way of saying, “No comment.”

“She is nice, right, Dad? She isn't a crazed ax murderer or anything like that, is she?”

“Not that I'm aware of, Robbie.”

“So what's the problem?”

“Who says there's a problem?”

My father is a smart guy, but sometimes not smart enough to realize that I've known him all my life, which means that I usually know when there's something he's not saying.

The waiter appeared and delivered my father's order. My father eyed it appreciatively and rubbed his hands together. I waited until my meal had been set down in front of me before I said, “Did the police find out who trashed Ms. Denholm's car?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” my father said.

“You keep saying that, Dad. You sound like a politician trying to distance himself from a scandal. What's going on?”

He shook out his linen napkin and laid it on his lap. Before he dove into his own meal, he looked at my plate and said, “That looks pretty good.” In other words, “End of conversation.”

After we ate, we went back upstairs.

“How about a movie?” my father said.

“Okay.”

“I'll make the popcorn.”

“Dad, we just ate.”

“Robbie, you can't watch a movie without popcorn. It'll only take a few minutes.”

There was no point in arguing. When it came to popcorn, I always lost.

“While you're doing that, I'm gonna check my messages,” I said. “Maybe Ben called.”

I fished my smartphone out of my backpack, which was sitting near the front door where I had left it. Two messages. The first was from Ben. I listened to it as I went back into the living room. He had called to tell me where he'd meet me the next day. I didn't recognize the second phone number on the screen. When I listened to the message, I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me.

It was Nick.

“Hey Robyn, you're probably mad at me, which I guess is why I haven't heard from you.”

He
hadn't heard from
me
? What was he talking about? I had no idea where he was.

“I guess I don't blame you,” the message continued. “I just, well, I—”

I couldn't make out most of the rest of his message—there was a roar in the background. It sounded like a gargantuan piece of machinery—maybe an airplane engine. Or maybe a crowd of people. “...coming back...love...” More noise. “...call...”

End of message. I checked the number on the display again and pressed the call button. All I got was a recorded message: “The number you are calling cannot receive incoming calls.”

I listened to Nick's message again, and again I couldn't make out what he had said. After two months with no word at all from him, of not even knowing where he was, Nick had called me, wondering why I hadn't contacted
him
. He had said something about coming back (I think) and about loving me (I think) and had asked me to call (I think). But call him
where
? Had he given another phone number that had been drowned out by all that noise? If he didn't hear from me, would he call again? Or would he assume that I didn't want to speak to him? Knowing Nick—

I don't want to blame my father for what happened next. It wasn't really his fault. I was the one who decided to listen to the message again on my way back to the sofa. I was the one so intent on trying to hear what Nick was saying under all that noise that I wasn't watching where I was going. I didn't see my dad sweep out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of popcorn. I guess he didn't see me, either, until it was too late. We collided. I dropped my phone. When I bent to scoop it up, I must have hit the wrong button because I heard that robot-like voice say, “Message deleted.”

No, no, NO!
I thought. I fumbled with the phone. I punched in my code to retrieve messages. The robotlike voice said, “You have no new messages. You have no saved messages.”

I let out a howl.

“Robbie?” My father sounded alarmed. “Robbie, everything okay?” Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at my phone. “What's wrong?” my dad asked.

“Nick,” I said.

My dad looked confused. He glanced around as if he expected to see Nick standing in the room with us. Then he zeroed in on my phone.

“Nick called you?” he said. I nodded. “Is he okay?” Unlike my mother, who was more relieved than troubled by Nick's disappearance, my dad worried about where Nick had gone. Like me, he was afraid that Nick might have got into trouble again. My father genuinely liked Nick.

“I don't know,” I said. “I couldn't tell. There was a lot of noise in the background. I couldn't make out most of what he was saying. I think he wanted me to call him, but I couldn't hear the phone number.” Assuming he had even given one.

“Do you want me to listen and see if I can make it out?”

“I just deleted the message—by mistake.”

“Did you call the number on the screen?”

I told him about the recorded message.

“That means he was probably calling from a pay phone. Most pay phones in this country, the ones that are left, don't take incoming calls.”

Terrific
.

“Was he calling from here in town?”

I shook my head and handed him my phone. He frowned as he checked the incoming calls.

“That's an Alberta area code,” he said. “What's he doing out there?”

“I wish I knew.”

“If you want, I can try to track down the number,” my father said. “But if it's a pay phone, I'm not sure how much help that will be.”

Tears started to flow again. I was angry—with myself for dropping my phone and deleting Nick's message. With my dad for insisting on popcorn and for not watching where he was going. With Nick for waiting two months and then calling me at the one time I didn't have my phone on me, for picking the worst possible place to call from, and, mostly, for disappearing in the first place. And I was doubly angry with myself, for crying like a baby over him. Was I clinging to false hope? I swiped at the tears on my cheeks. “I think he was telling me that he loves me,” I said fiercely, as if it was the worst thing Nick could have said.

“I see,” my father said. He looked at me long and hard. “Well, if he was, he'll call back.”

If
he was.

If
he doesn't jump to conclusions, which Nick has a tendency to do.

If
he doesn't think that I'm not returning his call because I'm mad at him for disappearing.

I couldn't concentrate on the movie. I went back to my room and opened the top drawer of a small chest where I keep some extra clothes. Nestled in among the T-shirts was a little box that I hadn't touched since New Year's Eve. Inside were two intertwined gold hearts suspended from a gold chain. On the back was engraved:
To RH. Love you forever. ND.
Nick had sent it to me for Christmas—but I had no idea where he had sent it
from
. Ben had been with me when I opened the box. When he'd seen what was inside, he'd asked me if he had anything to worry about. I'd told him no. But I hadn't thrown away Nick's gift.

I fingered the intertwined hearts for a moment before dropping them back into the box and slipping it into the drawer. I wasn't sure what it meant when a guy said he loved you and sent you a token of his supposed love, but didn't tell you where he was or why he had left or if he was ever coming back. But I was pretty sure it wasn't a good sign.

. . .

Later that night I tried the number Nick had called from again—and again. I kept getting the same message.

I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, thinking about what he had said—that he thought he hadn't heard from me because I was mad at him. I stared at my phone on the little table beside me, willing it to ring.

Finally I got up and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. While I was there, I remembered Vern handing some notebook paper to my dad and my father slipping it into the drawer. I opened the drawer. Nothing in it but napkins.

I

was supposed to meet Ben at the shelter for the homeless where we both volunteered and where we had originally met. We were going to spend a few hours there. I'd be in the kitchen, prepping meals and making sandwiches for the night van that went around the city to make sure that people who slept outside had food and bedding to help them stay warm. Ben would be in the lounge, where he socialized with the homeless people who used the shelter and helped them solve any problems they might have. Ben had been volunteering for long enough that he knew what to do if someone needed to see a doctor or a dentist or didn't have bus fare to get to the welfare office. The shelter regulars seemed to like him. He was respectful and easy to talk to—the qualities that had attracted me to him.

I knew that if I didn't hurry up and get going, I would be late. But instead of grabbing my purse and dashing out the door, I found myself lingering in my room, fussing with my hair and wondering if I should change my sweater. I pulled out the little box that Nick had sent me and stared at it. I told myself that the smart thing to do was to get rid of it and forget about Nick. Instead I dropped the box into my purse. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with it, but it felt right knowing I had it with me.

An hour later I was standing on the sidewalk outside the shelter. I drew in a deep breath, climbed the stairs, pushed open the heavy double doors, and was immediately assaulted by the smells of sweat and coffee, toast and oatmeal, and by the sounds of talking and coughing and TV. Stamping my feet on the mat to get the snow off my boots, I looked around for Ben. He was standing behind a long table on the far side of the hall, dishing out hot cereal to a line of regulars. When he saw me, a smile spread across his face. He started toward me and slipped an arm around my waist.

“Sorry about canceling yesterday,” he said softly. He kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“That's okay,” I said. But I realized that if he hadn't changed his plans the night before, I wouldn't have been downstairs at La Folie when my phone rang. I would have been with Ben, and I would have had my phone in my bag with me. I would have heard it ring. I would have answered it. I would have talked to Nick. I would have had the chance to ask him where he was. I would have told him how I felt, which...well, how
did
I feel? Angry? Disappointed and hurt, too—how many nights had I cried myself to sleep over Nick's disappearance? But all of those once-sharp feelings had dulled since he had called me. I would have told him...