The Consultant Read online

  SEAN OLIVER

  Also by author

  Fiction:

  Sophie’s Journal

  Non-fiction:

  Kayfabe

  Fathers’ Blood

  The Business of Kayfabe

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Michelle Meade

  Back photo by Mia Oliver

  Copyright © 2019 Sean Oliver

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781090117472

  www.seanoliverbooks.com

  For Nick and Amy–directly and indirectly responsible for so much of my happiness.

  ONE

  Hudson County Dispatch

  March 21, 2019

  No Progress in Search for Missing Carson Teacher

  By Noel Medina

  CARSON POLICE OFFICIALS have confirmed that there have been no credible leads to date in their investigation into a missing Carson public school teacher. Eight weeks ago, 30 year-old Trisha McAllister, an elementary school teacher at P.S. 21, was reported missing by her family after having not heard from her for several days.

  Carson Public Schools officials confirmed to authorities that she had also been absent from school without contact for that duration. After interviews with family and friends, police placed McAllister on the missing persons list. Since then, officials have pursued several tips with no results. On January 30, police announced there was a $5,000 reward being offered for information leading to a resolution.

  Carson police chief Reginald Abernathy said police were certain the tips received to date were not credible.

  “The handful of calls we did get were likely spurred by the announcement of the reward,” he said. “Detectives worked every call, as we always do, and they were all proven to be without merit.”

  McAllister was transferred to P.S. 21 in January, where co-workers described her as helpful and enthusiastic.

  “I could always count on her for help in the classroom, and even just a smile when I needed one,” said Grace Pappas, a grade-level partner. “She is missed and we are all hoping for the best.”

  Carson Public Schools attorney, Lisa Baines, offered a statement Thursday stating, “We offer thoughts and prayers to Ms. McAllister’s friends and family and will continue to comply with investigators in any way possible to expedite her safe return.”

  Anyone with information regarding the disappearance is encouraged to contact Carson Police at the number on the flyer below.

  TWO

  DEANNA CLOSED THE teachers’ room copy of The Dispatch and slammed it into the garbage can. Two damn months. And nothing.

  Deanna stood alone in the room for a moment before heading to the door and back out to the hallway. This brew of anger and grief alternately swelled and subsided a hundred times a day since Trisha was gone. Deanna would wait for the tide to pull this feeling back out to sea.

  Every article and newscast about Trisha used that same picture of her—smiling, bright eyed, taken at her thirtieth birthday party. It so captured Trisha’s essence. She was forever in blossom. Her glow was a calling card, her innocence beyond charming.

  Two months. Each day of the eight weeks shone a spotlight on those qualities and grabbed at Deanna’s throat. There was simply the feeling of missing a person, in that selfish way. But Deanna was aware of the effects of Trisha’s absence in a larger sense. The world was, at that very moment, just a worse place because she wasn’t around.

  Deanna knew she should get back to her class. She should yet again tug herself back into those hallways that did nothing but remind her of Trisha, and spend her day trying not to be reminded of Trisha. Though she didn’t move. She was in a building she didn’t know anymore, and not just because it was without Trisha’s light.

  When was it? When was the very first time Deanna saw something amiss? When did this nightmare start?

  Trisha started at P.S. 21 just after Christmas break ended, right after New Year’s Day. She was excited about her transfer to Deanna’s school. Things should have been great. But they hadn’t been since that morning Deanna woke up alone back on January 2nd.

  THREE

  HE WASN’T IN the bathroom.

  Wasn’t in the living room either. The apartment didn’t smell like coffee and there wasn’t any evidence of food having been prepared on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t exactly neat. Deanna stood in the hallway, surveyed all three rooms, and ran a hand through her long, tussled curls. She was squinting through the morning, trying to meet the day halfway. But now, this confusion.

  Where the hell is Jared?

  She walked to the front door of their luxury rental. She opened it and peeked out the doorway, down the hallway at the five other unit doors. All closed. She took a second to love the smell of new carpet in the corridor. Maybe the scent was actually the adhesive they put down under the carpet as opposed to the carpet itself. Whatever. It was the smell of new.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary in the hallway. How many other tenants were hating the first five minutes of the day as much as she was? Deanna closed the door and crossed the living room, heading back to the bedroom. She threw her flannel-wrapped legs back under the warm sheets and decided she didn’t have to face the world just yet if she didn’t want to. School could wait.

  Did he text?

  She grabbed her phone off the nightstand. The green button had an indicator bubble for a new message. It was from Trisha. She tapped it.

  I’ll pick u up at 7. So AWESOME.

  Deanna wrote back.

  C u then.

  She should have been up but the empty bed felt great. But she wouldn’t make her best friend and maid-of-honor wait. Trisha would be there in forty-five minutes. Had Deanna not agreed to ride to work with Trisha on her first day at P.S. 21, she might have rolled back under the covers. Screw that place.

  But Trisha was arriving soon and Deanna had agreed to show her the fastest route to school and where she should park. Teaching in a Carson public school, you needed every advantage you could find.

  Deanna remembered Jared was driving in separately that day. She was going in with Trisha and he’d said he preferred to just head in alone and not be crowded in the car with them. He was weird like that—had that social thing. He was smart and sexy in a geeky way, but was short on small talk. That was fine with Deanna. She was usually more than happy to handle the talking.

  But why is he gone this early? When did he get up? 5:00 a.m.?

  Whatever. He was a curveball, for sure. Deanna had no clue what his unpredictability would look like in twenty years. It was part of the mystery. She was easily bored and one thing Jared never did was bore.

  Most friends bored her. Work bored her. Her students bored her. She knew she’d never leave Jared because he seemed to be the only force in the world more unpredictable than she was.

  Where r u? she texted him.

  She pushed herself up out of bed and slid over to the closet and that nice deep blue dress that cut just above the knee. It begged for thick, cute leggings from the minute she saw it down at The Mall at Short Hills. Thick belt around her waist, showing off that tiny thing, getting smaller still. She was at 122 pounds and thought she could probably get down to 115 before the wedding. People were already trying to force-feed her.

  Screw them. Their fat asses didn’t have to wear the dress.

  She took the blue dress off the hanger and draped it on the bed. She grabbed her Bluetooth speaker on her way to the bathroom and simultaneously opened her music app. Couple of taps on Amy Winehouse’s picture and Deanna wa
s in the shower, being brought to life by a dead rebel.

  FOUR

  “BECAUSE HE’S AN ass, that’s why.”

  Trisha laughed from the driver’s seat. Deanna was looking down at her phone, straining to interpret Jared’s message.

  “I cannot imagine wanting to set up my classroom that badly,” Deanna said. “Actually, I can’t think of anything ever happening at school that would make me go in that early.”

  “Well, there goes the bridal shower.”

  Deanna shot Trisha a look.

  “I’ll frigging kill you,” she said. Trisha cackled.

  “I’m so kidding. God, imagine? Plastic tablecloths in the library.”

  “Shit, man. My dream. Being handed a blender by librarian Doris Calhoun. Shoot me.” Deanna went back to her phone.

  So much to do, Jared wrote.

  “I can’t even.” Deanna didn’t write him back. Instead she dropped the phone into her purse between her feet. She unzipped a makeup pouch and took out a compact.

  “So I guess I won’t be hanging with Ms. Calhoun at lunch?” Trisha asked.

  “Actually, lunch is the perfect time to hang with her. She does it so well.” Deanna applied bronzer and Trisha tapped on the steering wheel, trying to keep time with the radio. “Nervous?”

  “A little I guess,” Trisha said.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I just don’t know anyone.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Trisha laughed. “You know what I mean. I don’t know anyone else.”

  “Jared.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows Jared. You don’t even know Jared.”

  “True.” Deanna broke from the makeup and checked her texts again. Nothing further. She wasn’t sure why but she felt she was owed more than he was giving. “Who the hell starts setting up their room at seven on the first day back after Christmas break? Seven!” She shook her head and went back to the mirror. Trisha was still tapping.

  “It’s such a big school,” Trisha said. “How long before you got to know everyone?”

  “I transferred there over a year ago and even now I still walk into meetings and see strangers. I’m like, ‘Hi, you new?’ and they go, ‘Been here thirty years.’ Seriously?”

  “Well, I’m just glad we’re together. It’s gonna be fun.” She extended a fist to Deanna, which she pounded with her own.

  “Yeah. Fun.”

  “Damn, girl—you gotta change your attitude.”

  “Whatever. Paycheck.” Truth be told, Trisha’s enthusiasm was sometimes annoying. When they were in party mode, Trisha was a great co-pilot. But through the course of the average day, Trisha never seemed to emotionally ebb and flow. Trisha found a lane, usually well-lit and well-traveled, and stayed in it. To Deanna, who seemed to be all over the place in the course of twenty-four hours, it brought out her cynicism. It was a little mean, but she’d occasionally pelt Trisha with it.

  “What do you guys do on the first day back after break?” Trisha asked. “Do have a meeting?”

  “Probably. They sent an email last night. I didn’t open it.”

  Trisha looked over at her, eyeing the eyebrow brush Deanna had moved on to. “You wanna open it for us now?”

  “One more eye. Then I will.” She finished up, checked her reflection from a few angles, then traded the makeup bag for her phone. She opened the texts. Still nothing more from Jared.

  “Is it hard working with Jared?”

  “Our schedules are completely different and he’s up on the third floor, far enough away. I never see him. And he teaches after school so I don’t see him then, either. I’m not sure he even knows about the wedding.”

  Trisha smiled and shook her head. “Are you going to do any after school classes?”

  That got Deanna out of the makeup again. “Yeah, right.”

  Trisha shrugged. “I might.”

  “Enjoy. You and Jared can commute together. I’ll be at the mall.”

  Trisha turned onto the designated block and drove past the school. It was a massive, early 1900s stone structure—three stories of chipping paint with fading graffiti across the bottom. Some discarded bags and newspaper had blown across the small, fenced-in lawn that sat in front of the loops of red, black, and blue gang names. How often graffiti was removed from Carson Public School buildings depended on the budget.

  “It’s the gate over there,” Deanna said as she pointed beyond the building. Trisha nosed her car into the entrance of the tall, chain link fencing. She could barely get in.

  “It’s full,” Trisha said.

  “This is insane,” Deanna said, looking out the front windshield. “It’s not even eight o’clock!” The small parking lot was jammed with cars, tucked in all corners, some stacked in front of others. Trisha couldn’t even fit the front end of her car into the lot.

  “Wow. Is it like this every day?” Trisha asked.

  “Not usually. If you’re late, then yes. You’re gonna be the last car. But this is bullshit. We’re still early.” Deanna scanned the lot. Jared’s car was in there, tucked back into the crowd of cars.

  Trisha threw the car in Reverse. “Let me back out.”

  “We’re going to have to park in the alley behind the school. Lock your valuables in the trunk and hope for the best.”

  So quiet. The kids would soon ravage the hallways, but this time each morning allowed for some respite before the place became alive with confusion. It was almost pleasant.

  Deanna was making her way down the hallway to her room, passing open classroom doors with scurrying teachers beyond each doorway. They were hanging posters, decorations. Some of them consistently went all-out. It was a little over the top. Deanna would change up her room this marking period, but the degree to which some of these chicks went was insane.

  She looked at the names outside each of the doorways as she passed. No new names. Trisha was down on the first-floor. Surely she was already getting lots of curious faces looking in her direction. New blood in a building was always of great interest to teachers. They always seemed to be half threatened and half curious. Trisha was young and cute, too. Would only pique more interest.

  Deanna went through the metal doors into the basement corridor. The cafeteria sat at one end and the gymnasium at the other. The row of gym doors stood below a red banner of the school mascot, a phoenix, flying mightily between a list of dates they’d won school championships—a fair share of city basketball titles over the past seventy years.

  It was always much hotter in the basement. Louder, too. The boiler room was about halfway down the hall and was the reason for both. It sat across from the library, the only other reason you’d be down there.

  The walls wore decades and decades of coats of paint. Brick, old wires, and any other texture that at one time might have been distinguishable were slathered over with a lifetime of layers of paint. She didn’t know how Doris Calhoun spent her time walking that hallway to and from her library. The basement corridor was dank and depressing, something out of a jailhouse scene from a black-and-white flick.

  Deanna started down the hallway and Calhoun, never to be described as limber or lean, was down on all fours in the hallway. The sight almost stopped Deanna cold. From a distance, the figure could have been a heap of pillows or, upon further examination, someone in trouble. But Doris, creeping up on retirement age, seemed fine, though intrusive. She was peering under a door, into the quarter-inch slit of light coming out. It wasn’t even her library door she was looking under. That was next door with the overbearing list of rules and sign-up clipboards.

  And it was most definitely her library. The type A, steamroller of a woman stomped through the hallways, ready and eager to point out some vague violation of a rule. She was filled with procedure. Her emails, sent to the entire staff, were peppered with dates and times for events no one could even find in the assault of numbers. When Doris was called to a meeting and therefore going to be ten minutes late opening the library door, you got a da
mn email.

  As Deanna approached Doris, the librarian began to get up off the floor with great effort.

  “Lose something?” Deanna asked.

  “Where is she?”

  “Perez?” The door she was looking under belonged to the school guidance counselor, Elaine Perez. Her narrow door window was covered with teal construction paper for privacy.

  “She keeps this damn paper over the window,” Calhoun said. “That’s not allowed.”

  “Just have her paged.”

  “Don’t need to talk with her. She just needs to be in there setting up her room.”

  Before Deanna could formulate a response, Doris had already disappeared into her library and retrieved a pair of scissors. In seconds she was back in the hallway trying to shove the scissor blade into the doorjamb and slip the lock, having little success.

  “I can at least get some decorations up for her if I could just get in,” Calhoun said while struggling to break in.

  “Well, good luck.” It wasn’t returned, but that was fine. Deanna could only shake her head. She continued on down the hall and up two flights of the center stairwell to the second-floor. She was flipping through the items she’d pulled from her mailbox as she emerged into the hallway across from her classroom. She looked up and saw two teachers standing at her open door. Ellie and Arlene were cousins, a few years older than Deanna. They stood in the doorway, looking into her dark classroom. Ellie turned around when she heard Deanna.

  “Hi,” Ellie said. “Welcome back.”

  Deanna slowed and stopped before them. “Hi,” she responded. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. You just weren’t here yet so…you know…” she held up a roll of decorative paper. Deanna now noticed Arlene was holding scissors and a roll of tape.