by Elle Croft
I rush back to the bedroom, where I left my phone. Imogen’s number is in my favourites, so I dial, and get straight through to voicemail.
‘Damnit!’ I mutter to myself as Imogen’s recorded voice instructs me to leave a message. Then, after the beep, ‘Immy, it’s Mum. Where are you? I don’t remember you telling me about going out this morning and I’m worried. Do you still need a lift to practice? Please call me right away, OK? Love you.’
I hang up, then dial Dylan’s number.
‘Pickuppickuppickup,’ I chant as it rings.
‘Hello?’
He sounds like he’s mid-laugh. I resist the urge to scream at him for being so oblivious.
‘Dylan, where are you? Do you know where Imogen is?’
There’s a slight pause while he processes my question.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just went to wake her up for practice and she’s not here. Do you know where she is? Is she with you?’
For a hopeful second I allow myself to imagine the three of them sitting in a cafe together somewhere. She just woke up early, I think, and decided to go out for breakfast with the others, and Dylan didn’t think to amend his note before they left.
‘No, she’s not with me,’ Dylan says, shattering the illusion.
Silence fills the phone line as we both scramble for an explanation that makes sense. Finding none, Dylan speaks.
‘I’m coming home,’ he says, more serious now. ‘Have you tried calling her?’
‘Of course I’ve bloody tried,’ I snap. ‘I’m not an idiot!’
He ignores my reaction. ‘OK, I’ll try her now, and I’ll give Paige and Esther’s mums a call. Why don’t you go and check with Linda, just in case she’s popped over there for something, and maybe try Maddie’s mum too. I’ll see you in twenty minutes, but call me if you hear from her, OK?’
‘OK,’ I say dumbly, relieved that he’s taken charge. ‘You too, call me if you hear.’
I hang up and grab my house keys from the hook in the entryway, pulling on some sandals and slamming the front door behind me. I run past two houses and then down the driveway of Linda’s home. I knock hard and twist the front door handle. The house is unlocked. I open the door, shouting Imogen’s name.
Linda appears at the end of the hallway, her mouth open in surprise and indignation at my uninvited entrance. Her children are shouting in the living room, arguing over something, but I’m not listening to what they’re yelling about. I run towards the sound, hoping my daughter will be in there with them.
‘Have you seen Imogen? Is she here?’ I ask, breathless.
I reach the living room and look inside, my chest deflating with disappointment. It’s just Kailah and Brayden, tussling on the sofa.
‘Kat, what’s going on?’
‘Is Imogen here?’ I yell, wishing I could stop the dread from building, wishing I could keep my voice down. But I’m suddenly terrified, worst-case scenarios running through my mind. What if she hates me so much that she ran away? What if she’s been kidnapped? What if the reason she couldn’t talk about the fight at school was that she really was being threatened and now someone has harmed her?’
‘Kat!’ Linda has grabbed my arms and is shouting my name.
I blink and focus on her blonde curls, her bright green eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks again calmly, kindly.
‘Imogen’s gone,’ I say. ‘She’s not at home. She’s not answering her phone. I don’t know where she is.’
‘OK, come with me.’ Linda guides me by the arm into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. I try to protest, but she sits me down firmly and says, ‘I’m going to help, but you’re not going to find her while you’re in this state. Hang on.’
As the kettle boils, she takes my phone from my clenched fist.
‘Who do you want me to call?’
I look at her blankly.
‘Any of her friends? Her friends’ mums?’
I remember Dylan’s instructions. ‘Maddie,’ I say. ‘Maddie’s mum. Um, Caroline Lee.’
She scrolls through my phone and fills a French press with water from the kettle. As she opens and closes cupboard doors, she speaks to Maddie’s mum.
‘Hi, Mrs Lee, this is Kathryn Braidwood’s friend Linda … yes, Imogen’s mum. Listen, is Imogen there with you? OK, could you ask your daughter please? No, she’s not at home, we don’t know where … Yes, OK, thanks. Please call if you hear anything.’
My heart sinks. Linda places a steaming-hot cup of coffee in front of me, and I stare into the black liquid in disbelief. A hand appears over mine. I look up.
‘Is Dylan at home?’ Linda asks.
My eyes fill with tears.
‘No, he’s on his way. He’s calling some of her other friends.’
‘I’ll just give him a call,’ she says, and I nod.
I’m only half listening to her, and barely hear what she’s saying as she speaks to Dylan. I’m trying to make sense of what’s happening. My daughter is missing. Is that really true? Or has she just popped out without telling us, gone for a run or down to the beach, or—
‘I’m going to check the beach,’ I say, standing up. ‘What if she’s at the beach?’
My daughter never goes to the beach. Not alone, anyway. I love going for walks by myself, feeling the sand between my toes and watching the ever-changing water, the dolphins, the birds diving into the waves. But not my daughter. She’ll go, as long as there’s someone else with her. But what if someone is with her?
Linda runs after me, catching me at the front door.
‘Your phone, Kat,’ she says, pressing it into my palm. ‘Call me as soon as you hear. Let me know what I can do, OK?’
I nod, then turn around and run, more convinced with every step that my daughter will be there, on the sand, laughing with her friends, calling me stupid for overreacting. My feet slam into the pavement in time with my heart, and before I know it, I’m there, on the pavement above the sand, looking out at the blue water and matching sky.
My stomach churns, last night’s alcohol protesting against the physical activity, but I ignore it and scramble down the dune, sharp blades of wiry grass stinging the tops of my feet as I go. I scan the beach, which is scattered with dog walkers, children making sandcastles, runners, couples taking strolls and teens kicking footballs. But there’s no sign of Imogen.
Determined to keep looking, although I know I won’t find her here, I run a short way along the soft sand, my calf muscles screaming and sand scraping the skin between my toes. I only stop when I hear my name.
I can’t see him, but I know it’s Dylan. Panting, I look up towards where the voice came from and spot him standing at the top of a small dune. I scramble up the soft sand, ignoring the sign that warns me about snakes in the area, more concerned about reaching Dylan than what could be lurking in the grass.
When I get to the top, I look at him for any indication of news. The worry in his face must mirror my own, and I know instantly that he hasn’t found our daughter, either.
‘Paige and Esther haven’t heard from her,’ he says, and I stand with my hands on my hips, helpless and unsure what to do next, what to say, how to find her.
‘Where’s Jemima?’
‘I left her with Linda.’
I glance at my phone. It’s only been forty-five minutes since I noticed Imogen was gone. But how long since I really knew where she was? Hours? Or worse – since last night?
‘I think we should call the police,’ I say.
‘Whoa.’
Dylan grips the tops of my arms, as though that will somehow steady me. It only makes me more agitated. I shrug him off.
‘I think it’s too soon for that.’
‘But, Dylan—’
‘Think about it. What if she has just gone out with a friend and forgotten to tell us? After everything that’s happened lately, the stuff about you trusting her … maybe this is the time to actually prove that you do.’
I pause. He mig
ht be right. My head can see the logic in what he’s saying, but my heart, my gut … This doesn’t feel OK. My maternal instinct has kicked in, and I know something is wrong. But I’ve known that before, been convinced that my children have been in mortal danger, and they’ve been fine. I take a breath as both of these thoughts battle each other for dominance. I look up at Dylan’s face. He’s concerned, I can tell by the hunch of his shoulders and the slight sloping of his eyebrows, but he’s calm, as always.
‘Why don’t we go back to the house,’ he suggests gently. ‘And call her coach? If she doesn’t turn up for practice, that’s when we can worry, OK?’
‘And if she doesn’t show up,’ I swallow firmly to dislodge the lump in my throat, ‘then we call the police?’
Dylan pauses.
‘OK,’ he says after a beat. ‘But I’m sure she’ll be there. I’m sure it won’t come to that.’
I nod. I want to feel the same solid certainty as Dylan, want to believe she’ll come home before we have to face the possibility that she’s really missing. But something inside me knows that this is no misunderstanding, no miscommunication.
My daughter is gone. And all I can think – the awful, horrible thought that keeps running through my head – is that I knew this was coming.
I knew it all along.
Chapter 10
KAT
‘Thank you for letting me know,’ I whisper into the phone, feeling anything but grateful. ‘Please call me if she shows up.’
I end the call and look across the table to meet Dylan’s gaze. He’s staring at me, waiting for me to tell him what he already knows.
I avoid looking at Jemima, who we picked up on our way back to the house. She’s sitting next to Dylan, looking between the two of us. I don’t want to worry her, but there’s no way of hiding the truth, either.
We’ve been sitting like this for an hour, making phone calls, dividing and conquering, speaking to anyone who we can remember Imogen ever mentioning. Old friends, new friends, teachers. Even during most of the calls, I knew I was clutching at straws, but that didn’t stop me from feeling more and more panicked with every ‘sorry, I haven’t seen her’ I heard.
‘That was Martin,’ I say woodenly to Dylan. ‘She didn’t show up.’
I’d called Martin Cresswell when we’d got home, as soon as I’d run through every room again to check for any sign of my daughter. The house had been empty. I’d sat heavily at the kitchen table and had dialled Imogen’s volleyball coach.
‘Martin,’ I’d said when he’d picked up. ‘Are you at the courts yet? Have you seen Imogen today?’
‘I’m here, but I haven’t seen her yet. Still a while till practice. Everything OK?’
Tears had welled in my eyes and I’d forced them back down. Crying wouldn’t find Imogen. I’d rearranged my face, which had begun to crumple automatically, and had taken a breath.
‘We don’t know where she is,’ I’d said, the same combination of words I’d end up giving dozens of times over the next hour. I avoided using the word ‘missing’. That seemed too dangerous. She was somewhere safe, I told myself; I just didn’t know where that was. Yet.
‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be here. She’s never skipped a practice,’ Martin had reassured me.
‘OK, but if she’s not there when it starts, please will you call me right away?’
Despite his confidence, despite my belief that Imogen would never miss her Sunday practice, Martin’s call has confirmed my fear that something is seriously wrong.
When Imogen was small, I’d spend hours looking at her squishy cheeks and rounded belly and wonder what she was going to be when she was older. I imagined a high-powered lawyer who fought for the rights of the oppressed, or a surgeon, skilled enough to save lives, or a politician, but one who would actually do some good.
I didn’t imagine a professional sports player, which is a short-lived career at best, or non-existent at worst. But, despite my best efforts, she won’t be talked out of it, and in the end, I’ve had to accept that she might not have the career I once dreamed of for her.
Which is why, if she’s not turned up today, we know that she’s not just off with a friend somewhere. Imogen knows the rules: no practice, no game. And skipping one game could seriously hinder her chances of being selected for the national team. If she’s not there, it’s not because she’s chosen not to be.
‘I’ll call the police,’ Dylan says now, standing suddenly, his face pale, his calm demeanour gone.
I nod, unsure what to do. I sit, both palms planted on the table, frozen by shock and indecision. Dread sits like lead in my stomach, heavy and solid, contaminating my bloodstream.
When the doorbell rings, I gasp and launch myself from the kitchen table, knocking over my chair with a crash that I barely hear. It’s only when I throw the front door open and see two policemen in uniforms standing there that I realise it would make no sense for it to have been Imogen. She has keys. She wouldn’t need to ring the doorbell.
The realisation deflates me, and it’s like my world has been pulled out from beneath my feet. I sway slightly, and lean on the side table for support. Jemima appears by my side.
‘Mum?’
‘Mrs Braidwood?’ one of the policemen asks.
I nod. I take a breath, open my mouth. Close it again. Then I say, ‘How did you get here so fast? Dylan only just called.’
Dylan’s hand lands on my shoulder for just a second. Then he reaches over and grabs Jemima gently by the shoulders.
‘Jems, love, Mum’s fine, but can you go and wait in the living room for us? We’ll just be a sec.’
She hesitates, but moves away, making room for Dylan to shake the officers’ hands and invite them inside. I’m not listening to their names. I’m trying to make sense of this.
‘Why are they here already?’ I whisper. I’m suddenly hit by an awful thought: what if they’re not the police that Dylan called? What if they’re here to deliver some kind of horrifying, terrible news? My vision blurs and I double over, gasping for breath.
‘Come on,’ Dylan says, steering me with a hand in the small of my back.
‘But Imogen,’ I say thickly, trying to understand what’s going on.
‘These policemen are here to help us find her, OK? They’re here to help, but you need to answer some questions for them. Imogen needs you. All right, love?’
‘But how did they get here so fast?’
‘They didn’t. It’s been half an hour since I called them. You’re just in shock. It’s going to be OK, just come and sit on the sofa.’
He puts me down gently, carefully, as though I might break, and then offers the cops a drink. They follow him into the kitchen and Jemima crawls into my lap like she’s a toddler again. I put my arms around her, whispering words of reassurance that I don’t think I believe. As we wait for the three men to return, I try to pull myself together. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s after one, which means Dylan’s right – I’ve somehow lost half an hour. I shake my head in an attempt to snap into the present.
For a second there, I truly believed that the police were here to tell me the worst news imaginable. Dylan always tells me that I catastrophise, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s a coping strategy: if I consider the worst-case scenario, maybe I’ll be a little bit prepared if ever it actually happens. Of course, I was completely unprepared now, when these police officers showed up at my door.
They walk back in, ice cubes clinking melodically in their glasses. The policemen sit opposite me, and Dylan takes a seat beside Jemima and me, placing three cold glasses of water on the coffee table. I reach for one with shaking hands and take a long sip.
‘Sorry to give you a fright, Mrs Braidwood,’ says the man with the deep tan and sandy golden hair. He looks like a surfer, not like someone who can help me find my daughter. I force myself to smile.
‘Sorry I reacted like that,’ I say. ‘I’m just so worried.’
‘I understand,’ he replie
s. ‘Can I take a few details first, before we get into the specifics of your daughter’s disappearance? Could you please tell me her full name and date of birth?’
‘Her full name is Imogen Rae Braidwood, she was born on 12 January 2003, so she’s just turned sixteen,’ I say.
Dylan reaches over and taps my knee. I didn’t realise I’d been jiggling it up and down, but I force myself to keep it still. To breathe. I pull my arms more tightly around Jemima.
‘OK,’ says the other policeman, an older guy with a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache. ‘And can you tell us when you last saw Imogen?’
Dylan and I look at each other.
‘Last night,’ we say in unison.
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Uh … maybe eight thirty?’ Dylan guesses. ‘We had some friends over yesterday, and people stayed till quite late. Imogen’s grounded, so she was in her room sulking, you know, typical teenager …’
‘Why was she grounded?’
I frown at the shift in the policeman’s tone. He’s still friendly enough, but there’s something underneath his smile. Something that sounds a bit like suspicion.
‘That’s not really relevant, is it?’ Dylan asks sharply.
‘We don’t know what’s relevant yet,’ the cop answers patiently. ‘So we’d rather get a full picture right off the bat. It’s better for us to have more information than not enough. Letting us know everything, no matter how small you think it is, could be the difference between us finding your daughter or not.’
My temples throb. I open my mouth, then snap it closed, my teeth making a clicking sound. Then I shake my head. Finding Imogen is too important.
‘Well, then there’s something you should know about Imogen,’ I say, my voice trembling.
Dylan’s hand lands on my leg, making me jump. I look over at him, and he tilts his head, ever so slightly – don’t.
I narrow my eyes.
‘What is it, Mrs Braidwood?’ the older cop asks.
‘Uhhhh …’ I keep looking at Dylan, who is frantically trying to communicate without words. He glances at Jemima, then back to me. I can’t think quickly enough.