One Cold Night

actions seemed patently mistaken?
    Susan felt almost violently confused and pulled away from her parents, taking her seat at the table with the McInnises. Carole rested her large purse on the table to Susan’s right and waited for someone to tell her what to do; it was a rare thing to see her mother out of her Texas milieu, without direction.
    “Maybe it’s time for us to go home now,” Audrey said. Susan had appreciated the McInnises’ insistence on keeping her company, but it was in fact a little awkward now that her parents had arrived.
    “Thank you for being here, Audrey,” Susan said. “And Neil and Glory — thank you.”
    “I don’t want to go.” Glory’s voice was stubborn, her eyes bloodshot. “I want to stay until they find Lisa.”
    “But honey —” Audrey began, cutting herself short at the sight of her daughter’s stubborn expression. “All right. I’ll stay with you. We’ll all stay right here; there might be some way for us to help.”
    Susan looked at her parents, standing in the shop after their long journey, no idea what to do next. She couldn’t just keep them here, anxiously waiting amidst the chaos.
    “Mom? Dad? You haven’t seen Lisa’s room since we painted it.”
    “Lavender,” Carole hummed, remembering.
    “Come on,” Susan said. “Let’s go home.”
    Carole picked up her purse. Bill slid his arm through hers and they started toward the shop door. Outside, the mob of reporters gathered, sensing motion.
    “I’ll go first.” Susan stood up, strode past her parents and opened the door.
    As soon as they walked into the loft, Susan heard sounds coming from Lisa’s room.
    “Lisa!” she called. “Lisa?”
    Carole and Bill followed Susan down the short hall. Lisa’s bedroom door was open, and as they got closer the sounds got louder: clicking, like someone was tapping on a keyboard. Susan went in first, flooded with relief and joy at the certainty that she would find Lisa sitting at her computer, IMing friends or maybe even reading Susan’s e-mails, beginning to understand and possibly to forgive.
    But it wasn’t Lisa. It was two men. One, in a bright orange shirt, was at Lisa’s desk scrolling through her computer documents; the other, in jeans and a Yankees cap, was sitting on the edge of Lisa’s lavender-quilted bed, flipping pages of her personal diary.
    “Who are you?” Susan shrieked at the strangers in Lisa’s room. “What are you doing in my home?”
    “Whoa, calm down! We’re police.” The man at the computer reached into his wallet to produce his identification. “Detective Ramos sent us down; didn’t anyone tell you?”
    “No,” Susan said, but it immediately made sense: They were plainclothes detectives searching through Lisa’s private life for any possible clues to her intentions for last night and today. It was something Dave routinely did on cases.
    Their ID told Susan that the one in the orange shirt was Tyrelle LaPierre; the other one was Mohammed Shabbaz. Both were detectives from the Eighty-fourth Precinct.
    “Sorry about that, ma’am,” Pierre said. “Mind if we just finish up?”
    “Of course not,” Susan said. “And I’m the one who’s sorry.”
    “Well, I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bill fumed. “In Texas, this would never happen.”
    “In Texas, the nice man would not have apologized,” Carole said, taking her husband’s hand. “Bill, come with me.” She dragged him out of Lisa’s bedroom.
    Susan noticed La Pierre staring at her now. “You’re the one’s been sending her all those e-mails?”
    “Yes,” Susan answered quietly, too exhausted to feel ashamed.
    One side of La Pierre’s mouth dimpled and he nodded slowly. “Well, sorry again.”
    Susan worried that now, because the e-mails had been opened, Lisa wouldn’t receive them if she tried to from wherever she was.
    “Would you mind...” she began, faltered and began again. “Would you mind forwarding them back to her when you’re finished? That way—”
    He stopped her with a crisp, “Will do.” He didn’t need an explanation; he was a detective; he got it; and probably he loved someone and got that, too.
    Susan left the detectives to do their work. She felt flat, depleted, after the surge of hope and the shock of seeing strangers in Lisa’s room. She had a sense now that this could go on not just for more endless minutes and hours but days, weeks, or longer. And her e-mail messages to Lisa would float untethered in