Page 24 of The Trap by Catherine
“Sorry, I—” she started.
“She’d taken the theory test,” Maisie said, “but not any lessons, not yet. She was waiting until she could afford a car.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It’s just a routine question,” Denise said, flashing Angela a warning look. “Maisie, do you by any chance still have Kerry’s possessions? Personal items, clothes, that sort of thing?”
“Ah, yes. Some of it. It’s all in boxes, but...”
Maisie was still looking at Angela, as if trying to figure something out.
Denise stood up. “Do you think we could possibly take a quick look at them?”
Maisie led them along the hall that ran from one end of the bungalow to the other, to the (pine) door that opened into a garage with cinderblock walls, a dusty cement floor, and a mess of things—tools, chopped wood, a light-up reindeer—pushed up against its walls.
“Here you are,” she said, pointing to a small, somewhat haphazard pile of boxes tucked into a back corner. “Those are Kerry’s things.”
Angela counted five boxes. Just five. Three of which were archive boxes, the kind documents came in, and so not very big. The remaining two were a box that had once housed a microwave and a large one designed specifically for moving house—it had the name of a moving company printed on it—but still, this paltry collection was surely not big enough to hold all the possessions accumulated by a twenty-three-year-old woman. Not even one who watched all those organizational Netflix shows hosted by smiling people with alarming fetishes for throwing things out.
“Are you looking for something in particular, or...?” Maisie asked.
“No,” Denise said. “It’s just helpful sometimes, to get a feel for the person.”
This was a weak cover story, especially by Denise’s standards, but Maisie seemed to buy it.
She also seemed to read Angela’s mind.
“We, ah, we gave away her clothes,” Maisie explained. “And got rid of a lot of the... Well, you know. The rubbishy stuff. This is what’s left.”
The wordsGave away as in donated to charity shops?were forming on Angela’s tongue, but another warning look from Denise ensured that they would stay there.
“Can I leave you to it?” Maisie asked. “It’s hard to, you know, look at it.”
“Of course,” Denise said. “We’ll only be a minute.”
Maisie turned on her heel and disappeared back into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
“What the—?” Angela started.
“First of all,” Denise said in a furious whisper. “What part ofbe mutedidn’t you understand?”
Angela’s cheeks colored. “Sorry,” she said. “It just slipped out.”
“Don’t be sorry, besilent. Now she’s wondering why we asked about her driving specifically, what information we might have, when I told her this was just routine. She’s probably on the phone to the local boys right now, checking up on us. And you’re not even supposed to be here.I’mnot even supposed to be.”
“Sorry,” Angela said again.
Denise held up a finger. “Strike one. Two strikes and you’ll be getting a bus back to Harcourt Square. Got it?”
Angela nodded.
This was going great. About as well as the PCT.
Denise lifted the top box off the pile, set it on the floor, and bent to open it. Inside was a jumble of mostly anonymous personal-possession detritus: paperback books, DVDs, souvenir mugs, plush toys, and a tangle of old charging cables. Angela, afraid to do anything now, just watched her.
“Anyway”—Denise pulled out a battered copy ofThe Secret History, thumbed through it—“what were you saying? What the what?”
“Well, it’s just that...” Angela wasn’t sure how to put it. “It’s like they don’t reallycarethat Kerry has disappeared.”
“Elaborate. And go through a box while you do.”
