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“No.”
“A senior citizen?”
“No.” I pause again. “She’s in her early twenties.”
More doubt seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. “You don’t know her exact age?”
“No,” I say, adding a hasty, “I’m sorry.”
“So she’s not a relation?”
“No. We’re...”
Yet another pause as I think of the appropriate word. I wouldn’t call Ingrid a friend, exactly. Or even an acquaintance.
“Neighbors,” I say. “We’re neighbors, and she’s not answering her phone or texts.”
“What was her last known location?”
Finally, a question that’s easy to answer. “The Bartholomew.”
“Is that her residence?”
“Yes.”
“Are there signs of a struggle?”
“I’m not sure.” A weak, useless answer. I try to make up for it by adding, “I don’t think so.”
Now it’s the dispatcher’s turn to pause. When he finally speaks, his voice contains more than doubt and incredulity. There’s also confusion. And pity. And just a touch of annoyance to make it clear he thinks I’m wasting his time.
“Ma’am, are you sure she hasn’t just gone away for a few days?”
“I was told she moved out,” I say.
“That would explain why she’s no longer there.”
I wince at the dispatcher’s tone. The pity’s gone. So is the confusion. Only annoyance remains.
“I know it sounds like she just moved out and didn’t tell me,” I say, “but she left me a note telling me to be careful. And she left agun. Which makes me think she was in trouble somehow.”
“Did she ever mention feeling threatened?”
“She told me she was scared,” I say.
“When was this?” the dispatcher says.
“Yesterday. And then she left in the middle of the night.”
“And you’re sure she never said anything else? Maybe on a different occasion?”
“Not to me, but we only met yesterday.”
And that’s it. I’ve lost him. Rightly so. Even I can hear how pathetic I sound.
“Miss, I understand that you’re worried about your neighbor,” the dispatcher says, his voice suddenly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a child. “But I really don’t know how to help you. You’ve given me very little information to go on. You’re not a family member. And, if you’ll pardon me, it sounds like you don’t even really know this woman. All I can do is politely ask that you hang up and free this line for callers with real emergencies.”
I do. The dispatcher is right. I don’t know Ingrid. But I’m not the sad, paranoid woman I sounded like during the call.