Close friend? Where did they get that from? Clearly, Richard hasn’t bothered to inform them I’m an ex-employee.
His face fills the screen. He’s sweatier on camera than he is in real life. ‘All we want is for Elodie to come home safely,’ he’s saying. ‘We’ve been handing out flyers, spreading awareness, and for every coffee bought, we donate a percentage of the earnings towards the reward for information which leads to the safe return of Elodie.’
I roll my eyes. Trust Richard to turn my abduction into a PR event.
‘She’s a stunning girl,’ he says. ‘And we’re proud that all the members of today’s search party are fuelled by our organic coffee, ready to get stuck in. We just hope she comes home safe.’
Then, to my disbelief, Hannah is on screen. And it’s not just the Crosshaven pavements that’ve had a spruce because Hannah is wearing false eyelashes and her hair’s been blown out. ‘Elodie is actually such a sweetheart.’
My mouth falls open. She can’t be serious.
‘We weren’t just colleagues. We were more like sisters, you know? And we just—’ Her voice breaks and she brings her fingers to her mouth as though to suppress a sob. Her eyes are expertly misting with just enough wash of tears to make them glisten. How many times did she practise this in the mirror? ‘We just … we want her home.’ The camera cuts to video clips of people trudging slowly through dense thickets, armed with long sticks to comb through the overgrowth for my body. Then there’s a flash of a familiar profile – his long, straight nose and tuft of white hair peeking out from beneath his flat cap – George. He’s with the search party. I didn’t even think George would worry about me. I didn’t think I meant that much to anyone outside of my family, Jack and Margot. George shouldn’t be out there. What if he trips and falls in the woods? What if he gets hurt? What if he gets lost?
And for the rest of the day, as morning slides into afternoon, guilt creeps beneath the gaps of me. If I let it, it’ll swoop in and take over. So I distract myself, I switch on the radio, take a shower, get dressed – Jack’s top swamps me and I have to roll up the sleeves several times – and make myself dinner, taking my time clearing up afterwards, the radio turned up loud to drown out my thoughts. But, as late afternoon dissolves into night, I can’t ignore the twisty feeling of guilt. I can’t sleep. But if I give in and leave now, it won’t just be me in trouble, it will be Jack too. What he did was wrong, but he did it because he loves me. Because he might be the only one who does.
And then I think of Noah. The engraving on the bottom of the vase; he wanted me to be an author more than he wanted anything else.
You want to die having never done what you love?
My resolve hardens.
I can do this.
I will do this.
I have to.
Chapter Eighteen
13 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
On Friday morning, I woke to the smell of frying bacon, and smiled. Ethan was cooking. He never cooks. His mum didn’t teach him, preferring instead to do everything for her prized pup. Whenever I see her, she asks questions like, ‘Are you feeding my Ethan well? Is my Ethan going to work with ironed shirts? Are you taking good care of my Ethan?’ My Ethan. As though he is merely out on loan.
For the first time in years, Ethan was taking time off work. Since your disappearance, he’s been really attentive, kind, and I’m grateful. I only have two single friends, and their dating horror stories of fat, balding men looking for wife number three makes me want to cling to Ethan and never let go. I’m lucky to have a husband who loves me. Who wants children with me. Who takes time away from his hectic, important career to look after me.
‘Fuck,’ Ethan yelped, his finger catching on a too-hot pan as I entered the kitchen.
I gaped at the mess he’d made, the egg white dripping off the counter and onto the floor, the fallen bag of flour, the cinnamon smeared across the glossy white tiles.
‘What in god’s name is that?’ I asked, staring at his efforts. Inside the pan was a soggy, yet somehow burned, grey mass.
‘French toast,’ he said, as though it was perfectly obvious.
Laughter bubbled up inside me. ‘Please tell me you weren’t planning on feeding me that?’
‘What? It’ll taste great!’ He picked up the pan and confidently tipped its contents onto a plate. The grey mush slithered onto the porcelain. We stared. Then he grabbed a lighter from the drawer and started burning the top of whatever the hell this thing was to ‘give it a crust’。