My hesitation must show on my face, because she presses on. “Please, do this for me. A small favor. One look around the apartment. It’s all I’m asking.”
“I guess I could look, but it’s possible Rose took the journal with her.”
“No, Rose didn’t—” She breaks off and presses her fingers to her temple, frustration sharpening her words. “Rose ismissing. And the police won’t listen to me unless I give them a reason. I’m certain this journal is the proof I need.”
Her tears form as she stares at me. “Please, I have to find her. The police won’t help. The Marteaus won’t help. Rose has stopped using social media and her phone always goes to voicemail. Like it’s turned off or . . . dead.”
At the worddead,she shudders.
And I don’t think she’s imagining the phone.
Alice is clearly suffering. Her pain is a physical presence, vibrating around her like a force field. But by her own admission, she and Rose were having personal problems. They weren’t speaking to each other.
Maybe Rose still isn’t speaking to her, and Alice doesn’t know it.
Whatever the truth, I can’t turn her away, the way everyone else has. I can try to help, even if I’m searching for a book that will never be found. It’s the least I can do.
“No promises,” I say, “but I’ll try to find the journal.”
“Thank you.” Alice releases a heavy sigh, relaxing all over like someone pulled a plug. She rubs both hands up her face before pressing her palms to the table. “Okay, when Rose was younger, she kept her secret things hidden. Under loose floorboards, window seats, or in her stuffed animals.”
I picture the many nooks and crannies in the apartment. The journal could be anywhere. If it’s on the property at all. But I offer her an encouraging grin and wait for her to finish.
“Here’s my username on Instagram. You can message me there.” She pulls a scrap of paper from her pocket and slides it across the table, already prepared in case I agreed. “Please, contact me as soon as you can.”
“I will.” I put the paper in my purse.
She rubs her hands together and licks her lips. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Brooke.” I don’t add my last name, because it’s the same as my stage name.
She nods slowly, studying me like she’s trying to puzzle something out. “You look familiar. Have I seen you on a reality show?”
Panic flutters in my chest and warbles in my voice. “No.”
“I swear.” She squints. “Your face . . .”
My mouth goes dry. “I get that a lot.”
“Are you an influencer or something?” For the first time, she smiles. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
The waitress brings my food, and I use the sandwich as an excuse to keep my face lowered, hoping she’ll move on from asking who I am.
Alice taps her fingernails on the table. “Why did you think I was a reporter?”
I stare into the depths of my coffee, feeling cornered and uncomfortable. “A friend of mine is going through something at the moment, and tabloids have no boundaries.”
It’s not a complete lie.
“Hmm,” she murmurs, unsatisfied with my answer.
But when I glance up, her expression is flat. “Listen, all I care about is finding Rose. If you’ll do this one thing for me, it could be a big help.”
“I’ll do what I can and be in touch.” Picking up my knife, I slice my croque madame.
“Thank you.” Alice sits there for another moment, but finally she stands and walks away. Before she turns the corner, she gives me a wave.
I smile but don’t wave back.
