What We've Lost Is Nothing by Rachel Louise Snyder Read Free Book Online

Sophea. He thought she was at cheerleading practice.
    In the boxwoods, squatting in the dirt, her cell started to ring, and Sofia felt her heart drop. Confusion bloomed on her parents’ faces as they turned and looked out their back screen door, in the direction of their daughter’s ringing phone.

Chapter 6
    5:17 p.m.
    W hen the detectives knocked on the back door of É tienne’s restaurant, Frite, he knew exactly why they were there. He’d intended to call them in four days. Just four more days. Long enough to have returned from a vacation that he never actually took. He’d already cataloged what was missing from his house: a leaded-crystal vase from the middle of his white, Louis XIV–style coffee table. The vase had had a note card inside of it for his weekly cleaning service: NO WATER! NO FLOWERS! The vase was gone. Also missing: one set of Bosch speakers; a Tissot watch from his bedside table; a music box—baroque, of course, which played “La Vie en Rose”; a bouquet of lavender made from blown glass from which several purple-bud and green-leaf shards littered the doorway and the backyard grass; his television; and his collection of European travel DVDs (though, curiously, the DVD player itself had been unplugged from the television and left). His laser printer and fax machine were both gone, as was his backup hard drive (perhaps the first time he’d felt relieved over his laziness—he’d never bothered to use the thing). He was missing an eighteen-karat chain-link bracelet and a set of mother-of-pearl-and-gold-leaf coasters that had been sitting next to the vase.
    The knocking was insistent, but not obtrusive. Étienne considered not answering, but his car was parked in the lot just behind the door, and the door was unlatched. He wore an old, gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He wished he’d taken the time to put on his chef’s uniform and hat, but settled on his bib apron instead with the yellow stains down the front. Details mattered. His T-shirt was faded along the seams, and tiny holes had begun to form across his shoulders like moth bites. He hadn’t showered since the day before.
    Ã‰tienne grinned, then swung the door open widely. “Yes! Yes! Do come in. Sorry. I was in the lockup and didn’t hear you. The freezer! I mean, we call it a lockup. Ha-ha! I was going to call you, yes, I’ve been terribly busy.”
    The restaurant was dark. Closed. One pan on the stove held cooling caramelized shallots. Sliced mushrooms and chopped leaks sat on a carving block.
    â€œYou’re aware of the burglaries, Mr. Lenoir.” He pronounced it Len-Or .
    â€œThat’s Len-wa .”
    â€œMr. Len-wa ,” the detective said (did he have a hint of sarcasm? Étienne wasn’t sure). “So, you’re aware?”
    Ã‰tienne rubbed his palms down the front of his apron and shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible. I can’t imagine. We have such lovely neighbors.”
    â€œDo you suspect a neighbor?”
    â€œOh, certainly not. No. I just mean . . .” Étienne didn’t know what he meant.
    The man introduced himself as Detective Witkowski, his partner was Detective Dadek. “We work with Detective Wasserman, who’s coordinating the investigation.” Étienne recognized the Cicero accent. Nasal, and hard-voweled. Southside Chicago. Born and bred. He’d had it once himself.
    â€œExperimenting,” Étienne said of his presence in the kitchen with the restaurant closed. “Menu changes, you know. Playing around.”
    â€œI see. What’s in the freezer?”
    Ã‰tienne was suddenly aware that no frozen goods were apparent. He looked around the kitchen as if a bag of peas or hard fist of frozen duck breast might suddenly appear. He had nothing to hide, in the freezer nor out, yet suddenly he had the overwhelmingly absurd urge to keep them from looking in the freezer. As if, somehow, a