I’m only me. An average, middle-aged white woman with more regrets than belongings, more sad stories than happy ones.

My name is Frankie Elkin and finding missing people—particularly minorities—is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking. For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, no help. Why do I do what I do?

So many of our children have vanished. Too many will never be found, often based solely on the color of their skin. Maybe the question shouldn’t be why am I doing this, but why isn’t everyone looking?

Angelique Lovelie Badeau deserves to come home.

I consult my map one last time. I need to find the commuter rail to Morton Street. The map of Boston’s T system shows it as a purple line, which of course matches nothing that I can see. I spin around here. I spin around there. Then realize: I shouldn’t have left South Station. Back I head.

I don’t mind being lost. Or confused. Or even scared.

All these years later, I’m used to it.

Paul warned me I would push away everyone I loved, that I would end up putting myself in harm’s way, that I didn’t do this to save others but to punish myself.

Paul was always a very smart man.

I spot the giant map for the MBTA system, follow the purple line with my finger and spot my target. Once more on track, I head to Murderpan.

CHAPTER 2

It’s four p.m. by the time I reach my first location. Stoney’s, the sign announces out front. The red backdrop of the two-story building is peeling, with the white lettering more of a suggestion than a statement. In other words, it matches its squat, derelict neighbors jammed shoulder to shoulder down both sides of the block. The sidewalk is broader than I expected and nearly empty this time of day. After some of the articles I’ve read, I would have expected to see gangs and dealers loitering in every doorway. In fact, I see random people bustling about with their everyday concerns, most of whom eye me, the lone white woman, with curiosity.

I’m grateful to get off the street, pushing open the door and wheeling my bag into the dimly lit interior. For most of my adult life, I’ve worked as a bartender. Easy job for a transplant to get, and for the past ten years a good way to pick up local intel. Plus, I like the work. Bars are inevitably filled with the lonely and the loners. Feels like home.

Now, I register the stale scent of cigarette smoke sunk deep into the pores of the old building. Before me is a cluster of round wooden tables with mismatched chairs. Four booths line the wall to my right, the red vinyl cushions cracked but still putting up a fight. Three more booths to the left in much the same condition.

I make out half a dozen customers. All Black men. Sitting randomly around the small space, where their attention has been focused on the drinks in front of them. Now each one raises his head long enough to regard me. If the locals on the street regarded me with curiosity, here I get blatant suspicion.

In this neighborhood, I’m the minority. Then again, same with the past year, and the year before that, and the year before that. I’m used to the looks, though that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to take.

At least midday drunks have more serious matters to tend to. One by one, they return to their individual miseries, which leaves me with the dark wood bar, straight ahead, where a lone Black man stands, drying a tray of beer glasses one by one.

I head for him.

A trim figure, he sports gray hair and a groomed salt-and-pepper beard. His dark eyes are lined heavily and he has about him the air of a man who’s seen it all and lived to tell the tale.

“Stoney,” I guess.

“You lost?” He sets down one tall glass, picks up another. He wears a white apron tied around his waist and wields the dishtowel with practiced dexterity. Definitely the owner, and a long-term tavern operator at that.

“I’m here about the bartending position.”

“No.” He grabs the next glass.

I park my suitcase next to the bar, take a seat on a stool. His answer doesn’t surprise me. Most of my conversations start this way.

“Twenty years of experience,” I tell him. “Plus I have no problems cleaning, brewing coffee, or working a fryolator.” Fried food is the natural partner to booze—and this close to the kitchen, the air is thick with grease. Fried chicken, fried potatoes—maybe even fried plantains, given the Haitian community.

“No,” he says again.

I nod. There’s a second towel. I pick it up, select the wet glass nearest to me, and start drying.

Stoney scowls at me but doesn’t stop me. No business owner argues with free labor.

We both dry in silence. I like the work. The rhythmic feel of twisting a glass, buffing it with the towel. Even dry, the top lip of the glasses bears a faint white line. Years of beer foam, human lips. They are clean, though. Which makes me partial to Stoney and his establishment. Plus, he has a room above the bar to let, at a price I can almost afford. I found it posted on a community board.

“I don’t drink,” I offer. The first tray of glasses is done. Stoney removes it from the bar. Lifts a second tray of wet half glasses.

“Teetotaler?” Stoney asks.

“No.”

“Here to save us?”

“You’re assuming I’ve been saved.”