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EMMA
Ava and I sit in the car waiting for Stella. I’m clutching my phone – I sent a message to Paul asking what the hell he was thinking, telling Dylan without warning me. We should have all sat down, the three of us together, and talked it through. If Paul hadn’t been so bloody stubborn, holding off from letting me see my son . . .
‘Where is she?’ I say out loud.
I’m on edge. My wrist is throbbing and is a dull pink where I’ve been letting my hairband snap against it. The skin is smooth and shiny from the old scar, but no longer raw. I haven’t done this for weeks, but now my old anxieties have come surging back. The last few pupils are hanging out in the playground; no one has come out of the main doors for the past ten minutes. I call Stella, but it goes straight to her voice message. I send her a quick text. I take a deep breath. What would Jack say?
He’d be reassuring: Don’t worry. There must be a rational explanation.
I check my calendar, but she doesn’t have anything on after school. She never does, apart from Book Club. Have I been ignoring her? I’ve been so focused on Ava’s needs that I haven’t paid Stella enough attention. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I remember her face, white and pinched, spitting out the word Bitch at me. Better, I suppose, than Bigamist.
‘Did you see her at school today?’ I ask.
Ava shakes her head, her eyes wide.
‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon,’ she says.
The soothing sentiment sounds fake in her childish voice. I twist the skin round my wrist. My constant neuroses have pushed my eldest daughter away and made my youngest one grow up too soon. All I’ve wanted to do was keep them safe, but I can see now that I’ve made mistakes. I ring Kaylee and she answers straight away.
‘Emma?’ she says in surprise, her husky voice deepening.
‘Hi, Kaylee. Sorry to bother you, but have you seen Stella? It’s just . . . we’re waiting for her in the car park and there’s no sign of her. Is she with you?’
‘No. I’m with my dad. We’re back home already.’ There’s a short pause and then she says, ‘She didn’t come into school today.’
‘She texted me to say she was there this morning. She caught the bus.’
‘Right.’ There’s an even longer pause and then she says more firmly, ‘She definitely wasn’t in registration or her tutor group in the morning. She could have come in late, but I didn’t see her. And we’re in the same study group.’
‘Oh. And she’s not with you now?’
I say it flatly, although I know it’ll wind Kaylee up. I’ve seen some of her legendary tantrums; another reason why I wasn’t that keen on her friendship with Stella. But when she replies, Kaylee’s voice is small and a little ashamed.
‘We fell out – over nothing. I should have made it up to her. She’s been my best friend for years.’
‘So you have no idea where she is?’ I press the point before Kaylee can become tearful. Or before I start thinking about my own so-called best friend and how what happened to her was my fault.
‘No, but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.’
I’m not sure I believe her. Those two constantly messaged each other. I’ll ring Ted, Kaylee’s dad, if I can’t get hold of Stella. He always let Kaylee walk all over him, but he’ll be able to see how serious this is . . . I try my daughter again, and then the house, but there’s no answer. Ava and I try and get into the school; the door is locked, though, and the receptionist has left for the day. My call goes straight to the school’s answerphone.
I take Ava’s hand and say unsteadily, ‘Let’s go home. She might be there, waiting for us.’
‘I hope so, Mummy,’ says Ava, squeezing my hand.
I drive back as fast as I can. Ava’s face is white beneath her summer tan. I think of Dylan. I’m certain he knows I’m his mother. He’s angry, resentful, hurting. He and Paul are the only people who know my true identity. Could Dylan – or rather, MaddAddam – have posted something online? That’s all it would take for Jon Lilley’s men to track me down, to find my family. To find Stella.
I pull into our driveway and run across to the house. When I unlock the door, there’s no telltale peep from the alarm. My heart rate shoots up. Anyone could get in, and I have a sickening feeling as I think about leaving my daughter asleep alone in the house on the ground floor . . . Someone could have broken in through that window. It would take a lot of force – it’s triple-glazed – but even so . . . I can see her unmade bed. A man could stand here and watch my daughter sleeping. Why didn’t we realize? Putting the bedrooms on the ground floor now seems like an insane idea. Lilley’s words echo in my head: I can assure you that, as well as killing you, I will hunt down your family and I will kill them, and then I will find your friends and I will kill them, too.
‘Stella!’ I shout.
I check upstairs and then I run downstairs and slam open her bedroom door. Her room, as I’d seen from the outside looking in, really is empty. I search the other bedrooms and the bathrooms.
Ava is standing in the middle of the sitting room. She looks like a broken doll whose batteries have run down.
‘Should we ring the police?’ she says.
For a brief moment I’m aware of how it might look from the outside. Stella is fourteen. School only broke up an hour ago. How many other parents would go into a ridiculous panic this soon? But then, our family isn’t like other families. We’ve never given Stella much freedom. Jack, at heart, is a disciplinarian like his military father; and I – well, I have always known the consequences of losing sight of my girls for even a short time.
The phone rings, making us both jump.
‘Probably one of her friends,’ I say, grabbing the handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi! I thought you’d just have got home from picking up the girls. I’m on a coffee break. It’s so beautiful here – you’d love it! Did you survive getting them off to school? Practically a lie-in for you!’
It’s Jack. The cheeriness of his words is in such a stark contrast with what is happening here that for a moment I’m speechless.
‘Emma?’
‘It’s Stella,’ I say. ‘She’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I left her to take the bus this morning,’ I say, my throat dry and scratchy. ‘She texted to say she was at school. But when I went to pick her up, she wasn’t there. Kaylee says she didn’t come in.’
‘Who’ve you called?’ he asks, immediately businesslike.
‘Kaylee. The school. There was no answer. I’ll ring a few of her other friends and Kaylee’s dad in a minute. I thought she might be here . . .’
‘With any luck she’s in town with her mates. She’s not answering her phone?’
‘No.’
I wonder if she’s with Dylan. There’s a ping as a message flashes up on my phone.
‘Hang on,’ I say, snatching up my mobile.
I haven’t told him yet. Still waiting for your decision . . . I love you. Paul ×
I swallow uncomfortably. ‘It’s nothing, just a text about work,’ I tell him.
‘Check if any of her things are missing,’ says Jack. ‘Then ring the police.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Well, what might she have taken, if she went into Bristol?’
‘Or if she’s run away,’ I whisper.
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
And if nothing is missing, what then? Could someone have abducted her? If he’d had a knife, there would be no sign of a struggle . . .
‘I’ll get off the phone,’ he says. ‘Call me. I’ll come home tonight. I’ll wrap things up here.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Emma?’
‘Yes?’
I expect he’s going to say something kind and supportive, to reassure me like he always does when I get anxious, to tell me that the argument was not my fault; to reiterate that he loves me and misses me, and he’ll be there soon. After all, he doesn’t know that I have always been – and now Stella could be – in grave danger.
He says, ‘The police won’t take this seriously at first. She’s a teenager, not a child, and they won’t respond straight away. You have to find her. Now.’
The fact that Jack thinks this is serious, too, makes my heart rate soar. I turn in a half-circle, about to do something, but I’m not sure what. What should I do first? Call Stella’s friends? Kaylee’s dad? Check Instagram? Search her room for missing possessions? Call the police? My brain feels foggy but my pulse continues to rocket. I once heard of a man who had a congenital heart defect – I think the guy was a footballer. He was rushed off the pitch because everyone thought he was going into cardiac arrest. His heart rate was 260 beats a minute. He said you could literally see his heart pounding through his chest. That’s what mine feels like now. I put my hand over my breastbone.
‘Has Stella run away?’ asks a small voice.
‘I’m sure she hasn’t,’ I say, suddenly remembering my other daughter, still standing behind me, who’s just heard everything I said to her father. ‘She’s probably just with her friends. Do you know what she would have taken with her, if she was going out?’
Ava’s face clears as she realizes she can help. ‘I’ll go and look in her bedroom,’ she says.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, I ring the police. As Jack predicted, the woman taking my call didn’t sound too concerned. She said to do all the things my husband had already told me and, if I still can’t find Stella, to call back and she’ll send two officers to the house.
‘Hopefully she’s with her friends, letting off some steam after the exams, love. I’ll log your call now. Can you take down this reference number, if you do nee...
