Not my life, though; that part for once was in check. If Tristan suspected anything from my gloomy mood he didn’t ask, and I didn’t feel like telling him about my recent failure. Every morning I’d open Marissa’s case and re-read it, and for the next two weeks I took the elevator downstairs more often than before. Each time I stood in front of the building, paying attention to every single person who resembled Marissa even slightly, but she didn’t show up again. In the garage I rushed to my car ahead of Tristan hoping to find her there, but without success. I wondered whether she was all right, whether there was a chance she’d packed up her belongings and left the state, alone. That’s what I would have done; after all, that’s what my mother did, and it saved our lives. If she’d remained in New York, I hoped the reason I hadn’t seen her was because she’d found a safe place, or that by some miracle her pimp and father-to-be smartened up. I really doubted that. And I really had a bad feeling there was another reason why Marissa was nowhere in sight.
