a purple leotard and high gold boots; she doesn’t have the comfort of a shower, the relief of slipping into joggers. I refuse to change.
‘You don’t need to be a martyr about this, Lexi. You are not helping her by being uncomfortable yourself,’ comments Jake. I don’t respond. I hate it that he doesn’t understand me.
‘How do you think they got my number?’ I ask instead.
‘I don’t know, Lexi – who do you give your number to?’ Jake stares at me, cold and challenging.
I flush although I don’t know why. ‘Just regular people,’ I mutter.
‘People that you help at work?’ probes Jennifer.
‘No, I’m careful not to do that.’ Toma is the only person I’ve ever helped at the bureau and then given my number to. I don’t tell her that. It isn’t any of her business. None of this is. She shouldn’t even be here.
‘Do you think this might be connected to those desperate people who broke in and stole your laptop?’
I didn’t tell her about the laptop, so I assume Jake has filled her in on that. Clearly they are still seeing each other. That doesn’t necessarily mean they are still sleeping together, but it might. It probably does. I find I don’t care. I don’t care where my husband is shoving his dick; I can’t imagine why I thought that him sleeping with someone else was a tragedy. It doesn’t matter to me now. I just want my daughter home. I glance at Ridley; I keep forgetting he is here with us. He probably shouldn’t be. He should be in bed. Sleeping off the party excess or excitedly messaging friends about how much fun he had at the out-of-this-world party, like a normal teenager. Nothing about this is as it is supposed to be. I notice he is sobbing, silently. Tears roll down his face, leaving a snail’s trail of sadness.
I almost reach across the table and squeeze his hand, he’s just a kid, but can’t bring myself to. This boy crushed my daughter and now my daughter is gone. He is here. Normal things like decency have been wrung out of me. I almost hate him and everyone around the table for being safe and here. I would change places with her in an instant. But he is sobbing, and Emily would want me to comfort him. I make myself behave like a proper person – I lean across the table and pat his arm. However, my gesture doesn’t help. Ridley flinches. Withdraws from me. ‘You should try to get some sleep, Ridley. You can take a bed in one of the spare rooms. I think they are all made up.’
He shakes his head. ‘I won’t be able to sleep. I’d rather be here.’
I nod, respecting his decision. I keep checking the wall clock and my watch; they agree. Time is passing. The last time any of us saw Emily was at about eight thirty. It’s now three in the morning. I don’t want them to, but my thoughts start to traverse down dark and disturbing paths.
You are a winner.
Four words and the whole world shifts.
I can’t find her.
Just four more words. But they are the ones that shove me from fortunate to damned. She was there in front of me. All hopeful and sulky and glorious and angry and then she was gone. It’s strange that the good news – the winning – took time to sink in. This horror I accept instantly. I’ve been waiting for it. I wish more than anything that she was here by my side being annoyed by my clinginess and what she calls righteousness. Resenting me for being her buzzkill.
I should have known that we’d pay. I did know. I would have paid in any other way. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I want to be doing something, to bring her home. I want to be out there looking for her. It’s not enough to just sit and wait; wait and see what happens. I go and dig out Logan’s laptop, start to google the procedure and statistics around kidnapping. It’s a mistake. Like most things on the internet, facts are drowned by hysteria and cruelty, worst-case scenarios. I try not to click and wander down the rabbit warrens of despair and dread, but I can’t help myself. I feel sick faced with videos of men in hoodies, men on CCTV cameras, men driving vans into the distance. I am immobilised by the fuzzy, faded pictures of