clues as to Konstandin’s life, my gaze flying over the interior and the back seats. Am I still suspicious of him? He definitely has a dark past and possibly a shady present. Surely if he meant me harm, though, he wouldn’t have taken me out for falafel.
My instinct tells me not to be afraid of him. I’ve felt a sixth sense before – a worming gut feel, a voice in my head yelling at me to avoid someone or move to the front of the bus, and I don’t hear it now – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about Konstandin and his reasons for helping me. In my experience people aren’t that nice to strangers unless they want something from them.
I pull out my wallet and when he gets in the car I clear my throat. ‘I really have to give you some money. It doesn’t feel right you driving me around and paying for dinner.’
Konstandin starts the car. ‘Put that away,’ he says, without even looking at me.
‘But aren’t I stopping you from working? You could be driving right now, earning money, instead you’re ferrying me around all over the place.’
He cuts me off. ‘Please, let’s not talk any more about money.’
Maybe I’m insulting him, being culturally insensitive. But still, he can’t be well off. He drives an Uber for goodness’ sake. I decide not to press it for the moment. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, shoving my wallet into my bag but only after I’ve taken fifty euro out of it. I’ll leave it in the side of the door when I get out.
When we get to the bar Konstandin comes inside with me. Joaquim and Emanuel aren’t there but one of the waitresses confirms that she served them earlier and that they were with the woman in the photograph. I show the waiters a photo of Kate but they shake their heads. She wasn’t with them.
Dejected, we leave and start to walk back to the car. I stop in the middle of the street. Konstandin looks back at me.
‘Do you think something bad has happened to her?’ I ask, hearing the tremble in my voice.
He pauses for a long while. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally says.
Chapter Thirteen
I walk through the empty apartment, unable to call Kate’s name because I don’t want to hear the silence that will follow it. Hysteria is trapped in my throat, wedged there, and I keep swallowing it down. I’m scared of letting it out because the voice in my head keeps telling me not to panic, ordering me to stay calm. Kate might need me. And if I let the hysteria take over I’ll be no good for anything, I’ll just curl into a ball and sob like a child. I need to stay focused and practical. What if Kate’s in trouble and needs me? Isn’t the most critical time after a person goes missing the first seventy-two hours?
Konstandin told me he’d call if he hears back from Joaquim or Emanuel. And he’s going to pick me up first thing in the morning to take me back to the police station so I can make a formal missing person’s report. Tomorrow morning feels like forever away.
I sit on the sofa in the living room and take out a pen and piece of paper from my bag. I need to make a list. It’s something I do when I feel life getting out of my control. I make lists: at work, at home. I make lists of things to do, shopping I need to buy, presents I need to get, wish lists of places I’d like to visit, cities I’d like to go on weekend breaks to, budgets and goals I want to reach.
The blank page taunts me. What should I write that will help me feel less helpless and more in control in this particular situation? I remember one time I saw a doctor, when I was struggling with getting pregnant and feeling depressed and she told me to go and write down the very worst that could happen. The very worst that could happen was that I couldn’t have a baby. Once I wrote that down and accepted it as a possibility it didn’t seem quite so bad.
My hand moves across the page.
I stare at the words I’ve written and take a deep, shuddering breath in.
Kate is dead. It’s impossible. She can’t be dead. I refuse to go there.
Kate is kidnapped. I almost laugh at the idea.
Kate