I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
Lilly slept on for hours, her fever dropping but not going away completely.
I caught snatches of sleep here and there, then I’d startle and check on Lilly and make sure Willow was still beside me. I wasn’t used to keeping an eye on the girls like this. The only times I’d been alone with the girls was at home, and then only for a couple of hours here and there when Evie went to do some shopping or something.
Evie. Had she replied to my message?
I pulled out my phone and checked.
No reply.
Nothing.
I clicked on my sent messages folder, making doubly sure it had gone through.
Yes, I’d sent it.
Below my message was the conversation I’d had with her.
Nope, don’t read all that again.
Don’t do that to yourself.
In frustration, I clicked on Evie’s profile again. Under her username—Velvette—was a record of the last time she’d logged in. One hour and six minutes ago. I’d sent the message about Lilly over three hours ago. She’d seen it. And ignored it.
I formed another message to her in my mind—a message filled with rage and accusations.
No softly-softly this time.
I checked again that the girls were sleeping and started typing.
The indicator beside her name went green.
She was online.
My brain flashed red as I wrote a short, sharp message and hit send.
There.
She was in no doubt now what I thought of her. I didn’t hold back.
Cold satisfaction turned to confusion as the screen turned white.
Her profile had vanished.
Fumbling, I typed Velvette in the search bar.
The page returned to the home page of the website.
No username found.
I tried one more time, making sure I got the damned name right.
No username found.
She’d deleted her profile. She’d seen what I’d written about Lilly, and she’d deleted it.
Shivers rained down my back.
My wife had become like a stranger.
23. Constance
FROM MY HOTEL ROOM WINDOW, I watched the endless journeys of ferries and yachts out on the dark Sydney Harbour. Just streaks of light on the faster boats, their crisscrossing through the night making me dizzy.
I wanted to feel a fresh breeze on my face, but there were no windows to open in this high-rise hotel. The recycled air had a clinical quality to it.
What was I going to do now?
Every path I’d taken so far in my search for Kara had led nowhere.
Had she been lying dead somewhere all this time? In an alley dumpster? Murdered?
I had to stop thinking those awful thoughts.
Stop thinking.
Dropping to the floor, I carried out my daily exercise routine.
Forty push-ups, forty sit-ups, variety of crunches and planks and squats. All up, it took just under an hour. At home, I also attended the gym twice a week and went for runs on a track along Sardis Lake. It was important to stay fit.
Clean body. Clean mind.
Push the negative thoughts out.
My skin warm and perspiring, I folded myself into my meditation position.
No, wasn’t working.
Couldn’t meditate.
Mind spinning.
Spinning.
Spinning.
Stretching over to the bedside table, I grabbed another four Promaxa tablets and swallowed them with a glass of water. I’d seen a doctor yesterday afternoon and told her I’d forgotten to bring my prescription to Australia. The doctor had only allowed me the 0.5 mg strength.
Doctors tended to make you feel like a desperado if you wanted more than they were willing to prescribe. I wasn’t addicted. I’d just needed a little more to get me through these past few months. Surely I could decide if I was overdosing myself or not? Yes, I was feeling jittery and experienced a rapid heartbeat at times, but that wasn’t the medication. It was my anxiety.
In truth, I didn’t know which was which.
A mental picture of the note I’d found in Kara’s jacket two days ago pressed into my mind.
Had Gray heard from his wife yet? Even if she’d left him permanently, surely some contact would need to be made. Child custody arrangements, personal effects and furniture. Lots of heated discussion and accusations and hurt.
I debated whether to call him again so soon. But I was desperate for answers. If Gray had heard from his wife, I knew I would be the last person he’d bother to call. It was up to me.
As I took out Gray’s number from my handbag, I prepared myself to have the phone slammed down in my ear.
Steeling myself, I listened to his anxious hello.
“Hi . . . Gray. This is Constance Lundquist. I came by the other day looking for my daughter.”