by Emma Rowley
“It’s dangerous,” I finish. “Whoever’s prescribing this stuff to Lily—I mean, Mrs. Green—could be in serious trouble. It’s . . . it’s negligent,” I add, grasping for a legal-sounding word.
“Mrs. Harlow,” says the receptionist, Valerie. “I do understand. Now, I’ve taken down all your details, and I’ll pass your message on to the practice manager.”
“OK. Good. And will they call me back? Because I’m going to keep calling you until they do.”
“Yes,” she says. I can swear I hear gritted teeth. “Someone will call you back.” Hopefully not me, I can almost hear her add, before she hangs up.
I feel a little better once that’s done. But it’s not the receptionist’s fault. I know I’m venting my frustration—at the police, at Nicholls, at my failure to get anywhere.
I get up, restless, and go to the window. How could I have made the conversation with Nicholls go better? I don’t know if I could. Now I remember his comments, when he’d called me at the start, about how I came to pick up the phone call that night at the helpline:
“I guess it could have been anyone,” I’d said then.
“Yes. Quite the coincidence, really,” he replied, nice as pie. “And is it always that quiet—just you on your own?”
I should have known that’s where he was going. That this is what they’d conclude: that maybe I didn’t even get a call, not from Sophie anyway. That I was, at the least, unreliable.
Because it was weird that it was me who picked up.
I can admit that, now that I’m not trying to convince anyone else. Of all the times she could have called the helpline, for her to get through when it was just me.
I frown. For some reason, I felt like the caller was as surprised as I was . . . the line going dead, like she panicked.
But maybe she was just overwhelmed. What if she had been trying to reach me? What if she knew I was working there, somehow?
Think. If you search for me online . . . I go to the computer and do it quickly—yes, there I am. You have to scroll down a bit, to find it, but there’s my name, mentioned in that newspaper article from last Christmas about the helpline. In the picture, I am standing in the back row of volunteers—and yes, my name’s in the caption. She could have found me there.
So maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe the call was meant for me: perhaps, Sophie understood how much I needed to hear her voice again, even as she asked me not to worry anymore—to let her go. And of course getting through to me at the helpline, not our home, has meant I’ve had no way of tracing the call: it keeps me at a safe distance. It keeps her at a safe distance.
It’s just an awful lot of effort to go to to reach me, only to stay hidden....
And now my mind’s drifting to something else, because that isn’t the only odd thing in all this. That diary was found by a dog walker, the police said. And for that to happen now, so soon after the call . . .
I picture the diary again, as Nicholls showed it to me in that little room: the frontispiece with an email address that looks right—it just doesn’t match the one I know.
But, then again, who else would notice a detail like that, other than Sophie’s mother?
My heart starts to hurry, just a little. I want to try something.
I pull up the page I’ve had open: the email account that I can’t get into. Now, typing gibberish, I deliberately get the password wrong and get myself into the security process.
The question flashes up again. I’ve tried so many times to answer it, racking my brains as to what Sophie might answer: What was the name of your first pet?
This time, I type it in quickly: Matilda.
Matilda was the corgi I grew up with, a portly little dog with a strong sense of her own dignity. I used to tell stories about Matilda to Sophie when she was little, to make her laugh....
The next question flashes up.
Where were you born?
I take a deep breath in and out again. I’m through to the next question. I was right. It was a question for me. Stay calm.
London, I type in. That’s what Sophie would answer. We were living in a little flat there when she was born, south of the river.
Error. Of course.
But now I know. It gives me another try.
This time I type in Manchester, for me.
Correct. My eyes start to blur with tears, but I’m smiling as the third question comes up.
These are meant for me. Sophie pointed me to this email and left questions only I’d know. She knew I’d always come looking for her.
What’s your mother’s maiden name?
I was a Greenwood, but over time it just seemed easier to be a Harlow. Once we moved up here, and I wasn’t working anymore, the shift seemed somehow definite.
But Mum was Rhodes, before she married Dad.
And yet I hesitate before I start to type again—I’m so close, I almost don’t dare believe it. What if it doesn’t work? What if the email account is empty or, worse, inactive now, and I’ll never know what was in it. Please God . . . I type:
Rhodes.
And I’m in, the inbox laid out before me.
There is just one message, the subject line reading “FW,” for a forwarded message. I click it open. I start reading.
Then I read it again, quickly. My mouth is dry, a beat starting to pulse in my eardrums. I swallow.
Oh, Sophie. Oh no. What have you done?
PART 2
CHAPTER 23
Sophie
They say going away is easy, that the hardest thing is coming home again. I read that somewhere, before I did it. I just didn’t think it would all be quite so concrete, in my case.
I can’t quite remember who came up with the idea in the first place. I felt like it was mine. Now, I’m not so sure. I knew people would be upset, of course. And I didn’t want that to happen. They’ll be OK, he’d tell me, you’ll leave a note. I know the kind of thing you can say. And it won’t be forever.
I didn’t have to worry about what to bring, it was just what I should leave: my phone, my bank cards, things that they could trace. And I cleared out my account, though I knew I wouldn’t need money. It had to look right.
Everything went to plan. I just got the bus from the station in Amberton and bought a ticket to London, on the coach coming from Manchester. And then three stops later, after the airport, I slipped off again with my bag, at the services, at the back of a group of students who wanted to smoke. I just didn’t get back on with them.
He picked me up, like we arranged.
He didn’t like it when he saw I’d turned up with my bag stuffed full, worried that someone might guess what I was up to, just from that. “Relax,” I said. “No one thought anything. I told Dad I was going to Holly’s.”
“And did anyone see you leave school?”
“I don’t think so. But even if they did, they’ll just think I’m skipping class. Don’t worry.”
I thought it was beautiful when I arrived, the late afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the carpeted floor. The whole place looked warm and cozy.
“Oh look,” I said. “It’s all ready for me!”
“I didn’t do much.” He looked tense. I thought he was worried whether I liked it.
“I love it.”
A big floor lamp stood in the corner, leaning over a tired green sofa. There was a rug, a small chest of drawers, an upturned box. “For the TV,” he said. “I’m going to sort that for you.” I walked over to the wall and ran a hand over the low wood paneling, smooth and warm to my touch, then traced a flower carved into the wood. I didn’t know quite what to do, now I was here. Behind one of those old-fashioned screens was a mattress, made up with pillows, sheets and blanket. “Very posh.” I smiled, wanting to show him I liked it all. There was even a fridge plugged into the wall.
I peered inside: milk, eggs, orange juice. “What, no mini-bar?”
“You’re too young.”
“Duh, I’m joking.” The smell
of paint tickled my nose. I sneezed.
In another corner, behind flimsy partition walls, was a simple sink and toilet, one of those old ones with a pull flush. He followed me in, his head nearly hitting the bare bulb above us, and turned the tap on and off.
“It all works. I checked it over.”
I touched one white wall—it was still tacky to the touch. “You’ve been working hard,” I said. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Of course I did,” he said. I could hear the note of reproach at my surprise.
“It’s nice,” I said, to cover my sudden nerves. “And now it’s all for me.” I wanted to keep the mood light, for me as much as him; I wanted his excitement to match mine. “No bath,” I added.
“I can maybe do something about that,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. For now, you’ll have to heat up water in the kettle, and use the plastic basin.”
“Seriously?” I laughed, and went to hug him. “Really, it’s fine, I promise. And it won’t be for that long.” He stroked my hair.
Mum always said I was clever, and I try to tell myself the same, I do. But I feel so stupid.
That first night, he stayed with me. I felt OK, reassured.
In the morning, before he left, we’d talked again about what I’d do all day: read, make food, watch TV. I nodded. “Honestly, we talked about this—I understand. You can’t be everywhere.” But it still shocked me when I tried the door, after him, and found it locked: the metal handle refusing to turn in my hand. We fought about that, when he came back that evening. He used to come a lot, back then.
“It’s for your own good,” he kept saying. “It’s not safe. For you, or me. Someone might see you, even here. It’s not like you can go outside. So why do you need it unlocked?”
“But why do you need to lock me in?” I was frustrated, hot tears starting. “That’s not fair!”
“Sophie,” he said, his expression grave. “You’ve got to be responsible. It’s my life at stake here, as well as yours.”
I pulled a face. “Your livelihood,” I corrected. “Not our lives.”
“And when I’ve seen that I can trust you in this,” he continued, “well, we’ll see.”
“But I won’t go out, I promise. Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” he soothed. “It’s just, you’re impulsive. It’s not fair to put that responsibility, for your safety and mine, on you. But you do understand, don’t you? If it’s locked, no one can get in, either. It’s much safer. You’re all alone in here. I’d hate to think, if you were asleep and . . .”
I hadn’t thought about that. “OK, I get it.” I took a deep breath. “I understand.”
“Good girl.” He kissed me on my forehead, and I smiled.
He’s always made everything sound so reasonable. And he’s so good at making me feel like I’m in the wrong. In the end, I let it go. It wasn’t my first mistake.
CHAPTER 24
Kate
So she didn’t run away. Not like we thought, anyway.
The message in front of me was sent from Sophie’s other email account: [email protected]—the one we’d checked. She must have deleted it after she sent it; I know both her sent messages and her deleted file were examined.
I flex my hands; they’ve gone cold.
It took me a few seconds to realize what I was reading. It’s an email conversation, a string of messages that she’s forwarded to herself, to this secret email account.
Now I start reading them again, keeping my breathing controlled. There is no point panicking, not now. The messages are brief; I get the impression it’s the continuation of an ongoing conversation:
10 May 2016 at 18:05, King Pluto
All set?
10 May 2016 at 18:09, Sophie Harlow
Yes! I’m ready x
That’s Sophie’s gogomail, the account we knew about. The replies come quickly:
King Pluto: Do you need to go over the plan
for Friday again?
Sophie: Only if you want to. Everything’s fine with
me. I’m excited x
King Pluto: You know you’ve got to stay calm now. Don’t act
too happy, or out of the ordinary.
Sophie: I know! I just started another row, coursework
this time. I feel bad :(
King Pluto: It’s got to be done. Just a few days to go now.
Delete this conversation.
Sophie: You’re such a worrier.
Don’t I always?
King Pluto: I mean it. You know I’ll
check. Delete it.
Sophie: All right, I
will. x
King Pluto: I can’t wait until we can
be together.
Sophie: Me too. See
you soon x
King Pluto: See you
very soon.
So someone knew she was going to run away. Not just that, but someone was planning to go with her. And now one question is running through my head, on a loop: who? Because everyone she knew is still here.
I check the date of the forwarded messages—the whole exchange took place on 10 May 2016, between 6:05 p.m. and 6:17 p.m.—and pull up an online calendar. Like I thought: it was a Tuesday. Homework hours, when she’d be up in her bedroom, safely tucked away; me pottering around downstairs, upset after our latest clash; Mark still at work.
But she wasn’t safe. She was making arrangements, three days before she went, with someone who wanted her to keep it a secret: “You know I’ll check.” How?
I think: if they knew her password too, they could just log in themselves. The confidence that she’d do what she was told chills me. No persuading, no endearments—just commands.
And I know when this was, I realize now. Just after that last argument, in the last week. I remember how it ended: Sophie slamming her way out of the kitchen. “Just let me go. I can’t stand it! Don’t you get it? I want some space!” To go up to her room, and talk to . . . whoever this was.
I’ve replayed that argument so many times. If I’d handled things differently that evening . . . it seemed to come from nowhere. Of course it did, I understand now. They were laying the ground to tell the familiar story: family strife, an unhappy teenager—a reason for going. But that wasn’t it, was it?
And “See you soon.” But when? The next day, at school? Or afterward—only after she’d gone?
But I just know.
The email shows that it was sent on 13 May, 02:35 a.m.—three days after their exchange. The day she ran away. Sophie forwarded this brief conversation to herself the night before she left, in the early hours, when we were all asleep—filing it away where no one could see.
This was a back-up plan, a just-in-case. She’s her mother’s daughter, after all: cautious. Oh, not enough to let me know where she was going. Not enough to tell me who she was going with. But just enough to leave a trace, in case . . . in case she ever wanted to?
Because wherever my daughter was headed, and whoever she trusted to know about it, a part of her—however small—didn’t trust them. Not entirely.
I stay at the computer, trawling the internet for traces of this email address, the “king_pluto” one. I don’t expect it to lead to a business card, but I hope that someone was stupid enough to slip up, just once, using that email or username to sign up for something or, forgetting they’re still logged in, comment on some forum. To leave a footprint, somewhere.
There’s nothing.
I lean back. Now it’s happened I’m strangely calm.
I knew it. I knew it didn’t make sense. Not how it was supposed to have happened. Not my Sophie.
I can’t wait until we can be
together.
Then I do it before I can think about it anymore: I log in to my own email, the one I use for everything. I go to my drafts and pull up my standard inquiry email: “Have you seen this girl?” with her picture atta
ched.
Within seconds I get a reply: I open it.
Your message couldn’t be delivered . . . the recipient’s mailbox is unavailable.
The email’s been shut down. Someone’s already covered their tracks.
I prop my elbows on the table and rub my eyes. So who could she have been talking to? Be logical.
Danny? Or even a friend, in whom she’s confided; someone who wants out too. OK. But then what? They just chickened out—and kept quiet all this time?
No. It’s not just a friend. I can’t wait until we can be together. But it’s not Danny, either, I’m sure, after reading that diary, knowing how bad things were between them at the end....
I jerk myself straight: I can’t trust that diary, not anymore. Because it didn’t make any mention of this—this person, sending secret emails to my daughter. For whatever reason, Sophie didn’t want to write about him in her diary, even as she confided details of her pregnancy, her problems with her boyfriend, her unhappiness.
So the diary entries are . . . off. They’re not telling the whole truth.
My heart starts to thud.
Was any of it true? All those new entries that I hadn’t seen before, making it look like her leaving was all about a teenage pregnancy, getting the situation “fixed,” and a hot-headed boyfriend reacting badly. Sophie running away had finally started to make sense.
But a little voice whispers: and it gave you a scapegoat. Danny.