Cameras flash. She looks dazed and I imagine there are spots dancing in her vision. My chest is tight; my ribcage pressing too hard against my heart as I wait for one of them to speak.
Mum clears her throat. ‘Thank you all for coming today.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice in weeks; it’s like drinking a sugary, hot cup of tea. She pauses. Glances down at the sheet of paper in her hands, and I notice how pale she is. And tired. ‘Our daughter, Elodie, is quick-witted and kind-hearted, she is beautiful and intelligent. She has been missing for three weeks and we want her back. We miss her terribly.’ She picks up the glass of water on the stand and sips it. There is silence as the reporters wait for her to continue. She takes a moment before looking directly into the camera. ‘Elodie, love, if you’re watching this, if you can hear me: come home. Come home. We just …’ Her voice cracks and the paper shakes in her grip. The cameras flash again. A symphony of click, click, click. I feel the sting of tears as I watch her holding back her own. ‘We just want to see you. We just …’ but she can’t finish because she has dissolved into sobs. Ada steps into shot and Mum folds into her.
Dad leans into the mic, too close. ‘To the man who broke into my daughter’s home and took her from her bed: return her. We want her back.’ He’s seething. The camera zooms in. He’s been drinking. I can see it in the redness of his eyes and the heaviness of his lids. ‘If I find you, I swear to god, I’ll—’
Ada swoops in, putting her arms around our parents and cutting Dad off smoothly. ‘Thank you to the media for taking our message to the public.’ She is, as ever, collected and confident. Her voice doesn’t waver with emotion like our mother’s or bristle with anger like our father’s. ‘And to those of you who have sent us messages of love and support, and to the police for their time and effort in searching for Elodie: thank you. That’s all we have to say for now.’
Then all three are escorted off camera as reporters yell out their questions.
I turn off the TV and sit in silence. I can still see my mother’s trembling hands, my father’s red-rimmed eyes.
Great, streaming ribbons of guilt tighten painfully around my chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.
What have I done?
How can I fix it?
My decision is made: I am going home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
20 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
You have now been missing for almost three weeks. I’m sitting alone in bed, nursing day two of this hangover on an aggressively sunny, yet chilly, Friday in September. I’m no longer young enough to bounce back after copious amounts of fermented grapes, and writing to you feels more doable than finding the remote to watch reruns of Dawson’s Creek.
Two nights ago, Mum turned up at my house in the early hours of the morning, barefoot and crying. It had finally sunk in: you are gone, you are not sunning yourself somewhere hot. We sat together in the lounge while she sobbed into her dressing gown.
Despite having an early start, Ethan got out of bed and made me and Mum some tea. While I comforted her, he put fresh sheets on the spare bed and texted Dad so he wouldn’t worry when he woke up and she was gone. He did it all without complaining and I was reminded again why I fell in love with him. One moment, I wonder why we are still married, and the next, I can’t imagine my life without him.
I slept in the guest room with Mum, wrapping my arms tightly around her, inhaling the smell of her lemony shampoo. We used to sleep together like that, do you remember? You’d creep into my room after a nightmare, not our parents’， and you’d get into my bed and fall asleep, your warm little body curled up against mine.
Over breakfast the next morning, Mum announced she’d called our family liaison officer and agreed to do the press conference later that day. Ethan left for work, but he’d been so great with Mum the night before, I didn’t mind. By mid-morning, the house was full: Dad, Kathryn, Jack, Charlie and Tobin joined us, along with some officials who locked themselves in my living room with our parents to brief them on what to expect and what to say when they addressed the media.
In the kitchen, Charlie helped make cups of tea and little plates of sandwiches.
‘Good lord, your house is like something from a magazine,’ said Charlie.
It never gets old hearing how wonderful my home is. I take pride in it. I always dreamt of having a house like this, and enjoy that people envy what I’ve created, even if they do sneer behind my back that without Ethan, I wouldn’t have any of it. What people forget is I won Ethan over. He could’ve had anyone, and he chose me. I earned this house, so I thank Charlie for the compliment.