I want to scream, But you just told me about Tim’s involvement in Brodie’s case!
It’s probably different, though. That case has been closed for years, I’d imagine, so it’s no longer “sensitive information.” Still . . . it sort of pertains to Erin’s investigation. Has she crossed a line? The anguish on her face certainly suggests so. I also get the sense there’s more she wants to ask me, like whether I found Tim strange or suspicious. But she can’t, because this isn’t an official interview, and she isn’t a detective.
“Thanks for stopping by, Carina. And for treating Karen with kindness and respect. I truly appreciate it, and I promise you, we really are doing everything we can to find your friend.”
MY LAPTOP MOANS as it whirs to life. I’ve had it since my first week of university eight years ago, and even then it was a largely useless piece of crap. I make another cup of tea while it almost gives itself the computer equivalent of an aneurism trying to connect to the Wi-Fi.
As I see the new email notification, my heart thuds. Helen Hammond from the Daily Standard.
I got an interview. Friday.
A grin breaks out across my face for the first time in nearly three weeks.
Yes.
Yes.
And then I burst into tears.
How can I still feel joy? How is that possible? The guilt is overwhelming. Erin is gone. No matter what the outcome, she’s been through something unimaginable, and maybe hasn’t even survived it. And I’m smiling about a job application. I grip the bangle, our bangle, and try to stifle the racking sobs. Bury my face in the duvet.
Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life?
A dark part of me understands Smith’s selfish concerns about his own future. Because yes, Erin is the victim, but we’re collateral damage. None of our lives will ever be the same again. Karen, Annabel. Even Lowe—touched by this grief so raw anyone can see it and hurt.
Is it completely and utterly fucked up to celebrate a small victory?
Am I grieving right?
Am I even supposed to be grieving at this point?
Exhaustion drags my limbs into the mattress. Medication is dulling my mind. There’s no energy left; it’s been sapped by heartache and pain. The interview is a glimmer in a dark, dark night. A night I don’t think will ever end.
The house is silent—my brother Jake’s plugged into his Xbox downstairs, headset in full play. Mum’s asleep. I crawl into bed. Prop up my pillows behind me, switch the lights off so all I can see is the glaring screen.
Type into the search engine: “Brodie Breckenridge.”
This time, it pulls dozens of articles from the cyber ether.
It’s not as high profile as I’d expected, but she vanished in May 2007—around the same time as Madeleine McCann. Pretty much all the major news coverage was assigned to Kate and Gerry’s pleas for their daughter’s safe return, and Brodie slipped under the radar. Still, I find enough information to get a grasp on her case.
Brodie Ellen Breckenridge. Twenty-eight years old. A journalist with a major British broadsheet. A press trip with the Croatian tourism board. Went on a night out with some locals in Dubrovnik on May 18, and was never seen again.
Tim doesn’t appear in any of the coverage, but why would he? At the time he was nothing more than a SigWit. I doubt my name crops up in any of Erin’s PR. I still can’t bring myself to look.
After a few weeks, the articles fizzle out, make way for a fresh wave of international disasters. From what I gather, the case was never solved. There were no promising leads, no significant suspects, no reported sightings with any real credibility.
Please don’t let history repeat itself.
As strange as it sounds, it’s the picture of Brodie that chills me most. It’s not that she looks creepily like Erin, just enough so that it’s noticeable: blond hair, red lipstick, big smile. She was beautiful. Maybe this is all as simple as sexual assault gone bad. Maybe there’s no big conspiracy. Maybe Erin and Brodie were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and their beauty got them in trouble with male predators. I don’t want to believe the world is that vulgar, but things happen every day to prove it is.
There’s another similarity between them, one too obvious to ignore. They’re both journalists. Did someone have a vendetta against reporters? Did Tim?
The police investigated him. He’s clean as a whistle. And even I can’t deny seeing him in the VIP bar at the time Erin went missing.
Plus, there are eight years between them. He’s led countless other press trips in that time, ones probably involving dozens of other beautiful blondes, all which have occurred without incident.
Unless Andrijo is the real connection.
Beautiful face. Coal-black eyes. Intensity so sharp it cuts through you.
Where was he on May 18, 2007?
Chapter Thirteen
July 30, England
“I HURT HER.”
Smith is a mess. Not even wearing a suit—he hasn’t been to work in days. Puffy eyes, part-hangover, part-grief. It’s raining in the churchyard. He doesn’t notice as beads of water run down his forehead, dripping off his brow and into his eyes. My umbrella is doing nothing to keep me dry.
I want to console him. I do. But the image of Erin in that toilet cubicle, clawing the walls, howling like a wounded animal, is too powerful to forget. “He used to see me as an equal, but now I’m just some dumb fashion bimbo. Like the rest of them. I’ve taken his dream from him by following mine.” I hated the shame she carried with her in the weeks after he apologized. She couldn’t forget it. She felt like less, when really she’s so much more.
Karen. “Whenever something goes wrong in her life, Erin lashes out. Not at the world, but at herself.”
And that’s why Smith’s self-indulgent remorse falls flat at my feet.
He takes my silence as an invitation to continue. “I should’ve supported her. I should’ve . . . I should’ve done everything in my power to make her happy. To keep her safe. I’d give anything to go back and do over. I . . . I love her, Carina. I really do. You probably think I’m a total bastard. I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve fucked up. There’s no denying that. But the thought of anything bad happening to her . . .” He drops his head into his hands. His gray jumper is soaked through. “Fuck.”
I force myself to say, “It’s not your fault.” Because even though he’s right, and I do think he’s a total bastard, his douchebaggery really is not to blame for her disappearance.
Despite my animosity, I agreed to see him again because I needed to do more probing about the possible pregnancy. He may not have explicitly known about the test, but surely he can look back on her behavior over the last few months and figure out whether she had an inkling? They spent so much time together. Was she drinking? On work nights out, she’s always stuck to vodka, lime and soda. She could easily have skipped the vodka and none of us would’ve been any the wiser. But on their date nights and family events, it would’ve been harder to hide. Or was he so wrapped up in himself he didn’t notice? It wouldn’t surprise me.
And her mental state. I know it’s tough to separate the possible pregnancy from the turmoil over her father’s release, but they’ve been together nine years. He should know her well enough by now that something so huge could never slip under the radar. Should.
Her body would’ve changed, too. She’s tall and slender, so even though a bump probably wouldn’t show up that fast, I hear boobs swell like crazy in the first trimester. Smith’s a guy. If he’s gonna notice anything, it’d be that.
Something twists in my stomach. The idea of Erin, pregnant, going through all of this, a half-formed child in her womb, is too much. I almost don’t want to know. Because if it was true, it’d be too horrifying to even comprehend.
A baby. Erin.
Both dead.
> The familiar tightening in my chest brings a rush of dread.
No. Not here. Not now.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
Just breathe. Keep breathing. Don’t stop breathing. It’s the only thing you can control.
Smith’s talking but he’s far away, near a gravestone, on top of the steeple, buried underground, somewhere I can’t hear him.
The umbrella clatters to the ground.
This isn’t real this isn’t real none of this is real.
She’s fine. Erin is fine. Her baby is fine.
I can’t tell where my anxiety ends and my grief begins.
I cannot survive this. Neither can Smith. We are collateral damage. We are broken.
Swallowed in this gaping black hole, this hollow darkness, the absence of light between stars.
The loss of her.
I collapse into him, and sob until there’s nothing left.
Chapter Fourteen
July 31, England
LESS THAN THREE weeks after she vanished, I’m already trying to forget her existence.
It hurts too much to think of her. And I can’t afford to be incapacitated by grief.
As painful as it is to forget Erin, it’s nowhere near as agonizing as it is to remember. And so, with a dream job and my own sanity on the line, I double up my meds and embrace the delicious numbness. Much as I wish I didn’t, I need to survive.
I’m using my hour-long lunch break to go to my job interview. The Daily Standard offices are only a few hundred meters from Northern Heart, and hopefully Lowe won’t question the fact I’m dressed far more smartly than usual.
My morning in the fashion cupboard is spent in a state of med-induced relaxation. I brought a list of possible interview questions to rehearse as I steam clothes for a shoot, as well as a ton of information I found about the publication’s history. But my brain is too quiet. Nothing sticks to the peaceful white noise. A drug-induced haze. It’s fucking great. For the first time in too long, nothing hurts. I’m no longer navigating a battlefield of emotional land mines and traumatic open fire, where the bullets are memories and my subconscious is holding the gun.
In fact, I feel so calm I could curl up and sleep. There’s a huge fur coat we were sent for our A/W shoot . . . it’d make the perfect blanket. My eyelids start to droop at the prospect. Nothing has ever felt more alluring than a nap in this very moment. Slumber pulls me under. Maybe if I sleep for five or ten minutes, I’ll wake up superrefreshed for my interview.
I’m asleep before I even hit the ground.
“CARINA!”
The piercing shriek wakes me. I barely felt the hands on my shoulders, shaking me frantically.
“Wha . . . ? Lowe?” My throat’s impossibly dry. Why am I on the floor of the fashion cupboard? Curled up in a fur coat like Cruella fucking de Vil?
Lowe’s outline is blurry, but I can sense the panic.
“Jesus, Carina, you scared the hell out of me! What the . . . ?”
Okay, maybe not panic. Anger.
“I—I’m . . . sorry . . . I just . . . what time is it?”
“I almost called an ambulance, sweetie. What happened? Did you pass out?”
“No,” I say, suddenly unsure. “No, I just . . . I got really tired. I’m sorry. I upped my dose of medication, is all. Maybe too high. I’m . . . m’sorry.”
She shakes her head, impatient. “Stop apologizing. Are you all right? Did a doctor authorize your new dosage, or did you self-prescribe?”
My silence tells her all she needs to know.
A sigh. Not patronizing, but not far away. “Listen, Carina. I know you’ve been through a lot. This must be incredibly difficult for you. Anybody would take this hard, and I know you have a more fragile disposition than most.” I grit my teeth. “Maybe it’s best if you take some time off. Time to clear your head.”
Something’s fighting through the haze, but it’s dressed in shadows. “Really, Lowe, I’m fine. That’s not necessary. I’ll see my GP. Sort out my dose. I’ll be fine, I swear.” I gulp back the lump in my throat. “I need this. It’s all I have.” A sympathetic head tilt. “Besides. You need me here. Have you seen the state of this place?” I try for a joke, but my words are so slurred it’s just kind of tragic.
“You’re right. I should’ve sacked you a long time ago.” Her joke is funnier than mine, but I still can’t smile. “But really. Don’t worry about that, love. We have another intern starting next week, to replace . . . well, she’s starting next week. So we could cope without you for a while.”
That cuts through the fog. I tremble. Push myself up onto my elbows. “You . . . you’re replacing her already?”
“Well, we have the fashion supplement coming up, and we need as many hands on deck as we can. And . . . well. Even if Erin does come back, I doubt she’ll want to jump straight back into work. She may have been through a lot. It makes sense, Carina.”
The buzz of anger is unfamiliar. It’s not usually my default reaction, but this feels so callous, so hasty. “You’ve given up on her. After everything she’s done for Northern Heart, you’re giving up.”
“Listen—”
“No. This is just . . . it’s so disrespectful. I’d have thought even you would—”
Now she snaps. Climbs to her feet. Purple-painted lips pucker in anger. “Even me? Who do you think you’re talking to?!”
I’m too weak to stand, my legs folded pathetically under me, but I still find some venom to inject into my words. “You didn’t even publish her fashion reports on the site. Did they not uphold your demanding standards? Even after she potentially lost her life on that trip, you still can’t find it in yourself to publish something less than perfect?” I snarl. I don’t know where the rage is coming from, how it’s even piercing my cloudy mind, but it feels strangely good. “She was killing herself for you, Lowe. She would’ve given anything to graduate above intern level. You know what? I think you were intimidated by her. By her beauty, her passion, her gift. Her youth. I bet you’re glad she’s gone.”
She stabs a finger at me, hand trembling with anger. “She never sent me any reports. Too busy having a grand old time to do any work, I assume. Was I pissed? Hell, yes, I was. But to insinuate I’m glad she could be dead? Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, little girl.”
The numbness shatters.
I WAS FIRED. And, as I was leaving the office with my tail between my legs, the clock chimed three.
I lost my internship, and I slept through my job interview, and the depression is so heavy I don’t even care.
None of it matters. None of it matters in this cruel, cruel world.
The sadness swallows me whole. I let it.
I STOP BY my mum’s house on the way home. She’s washed her hair, and is actually blow-drying it back into a neat ponytail, rather than leaving it to puff up into an unmanageable afro like she usually does.
“Working tonight, Mum?” I drop my keys into the bowl by the front door. She’s picked up a job at a pub down the road. The money from selling my dad’s business isn’t running out just yet, but it’s good for her to get out. Meet people, earn a few bucks.
“Yeah. Five ’til close. Payday weekend, too. Town’ll be mobbed. You have any plans?”
Crawl into bed and never leave again because what’s the point? “Nah, nothing. Might see if Jake wants to catch a movie or something. There’s a new Marvel film out he wants to see.”
She lays down her hairbrush on the vanity chest we picked up at a thrift store. We painstakingly painted it duck-egg blue, stenciled the drawers with white rose appliqués. That was one of her good days. She turns to face me. I try to hide my surprise at how old she looks. Fine lines wrinkle her eyes. Jowls have settled around her jaw. “I appreciate you, Carina. Really, I do. How strong you are. How you care for us.”
>
I want to cry as she walks over to me, still standing in the doorway, and cups my face. “I know the last few years have been hard for you, since your father passed. And I know I haven’t always been the best mother . . . I’ve relied far too heavily on you, and that was unfair of me.”
I’m about to speak, to tell her it’s okay and that she doesn’t have to worry about me and that I’d do it forever if I had to, but she presses a thumb to my lips. “But now . . . now you’re going through something very hard. And it’s time for me to step up and be a mother. A real one.” Her eyes are glistening. So are mine. She swipes one of my tears away. “You’re so special. So bright. This internship is just the beginning for you. I feel it in my bones.”
She pecks a kiss on my forehead, and I dissolve. Tears come thick and fast.
No, I want to scream at her. I failed. I fell apart. I met with disaster and it destroyed me.
THE MORE THE medication wears off, the worse I feel. The shame comes first. Hot, burning shame over the way I spoke to Lowe, after she’s been so great the last few weeks.
“You know what? I think you were intimidated by her. By her beauty, her passion, her gift. I bet you’re glad she’s gone.”
I cringe, curling myself up in a tight ball in my bed, wishing I could scrub the ugly, ugly words from my memory. Shaking, I press my fingers into my eyes until kaleidoscopic spots appear.
I don’t even deserve a job.
And what kind of idiot sleeps through the job interview of a lifetime? I tried to numb myself to the pain of losing Erin, but I opened up a whole new world of regret. I cry even harder, huge, rasping sobs, when I imagine coming home and telling my mum I finally made it. I finally got a job.
Instead I have nothing.
Even through the tears, there’s something niggling in the periphery of my mind. Something demanding to be seen. Lowe said something today, something that mattered, and I can’t quite . . .
I freeze. Stop crying abruptly.
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