I lean back in my seat, and sigh deeply. The morbidly obese man next to me, who smells of unwashed hair and dairy products, gives me a filthy look. Probably just for being a black girl and daring to exist in such close proximity to him. He eyes my purple dip-dyed hair with disdain. I can’t even bring myself to react.
I press my eyes closed, though I’ll never manage to sleep over the din of the airplane cabin. When we reach Novi Sad we’re getting a taxi from Belgrade, because it’ll be late. Karen and I will probably just check into our hotel and get some sleep. Tomorrow, though, I want to meet with Ilić again. Tell him everything I’ve discovered, even if none of it means anything. The baby, the disease, the café. He should know it all.
Then I want to visit the café myself. Scope it out. Ask the staff if they remember anything. I know I’m no detective, but I can’t stand learning all this stuff, passing it over, then just hoping everyone else is good enough at their jobs to explore the avenue fully.
It’s the paranoid control freak in me. She’s hard to silence.
KAREN HUGS ME goodnight as we go to our separate rooms, and a wave of sympathy crashes down around me—the magnitude of her loneliness and grief is hard to comprehend. Her husband, a violent alcoholic, is in prison. Her oldest daughter is missing, feared dead. Her youngest daughter won’t even leave her room; she tells her mother every day how much she hates her. Karen Baxter is losing everything, and right in this moment, I’d do anything to save her.
Still, I’m glad for my own space. I prop myself up in bed, surrounded by fluffy hotel pillows and goose-down duvets, and work on transcribing my coloring book scrawls into legible notes. Ilić may well laugh in my face, but I have to do it. I have to put myself out there.
For Erin.
Chapter Seventeen
August 3, Serbia
RAIN RICOCHETS OFF the cracked pavements. Puddles pool in the dips of the street. Liberty Square is drenched, and so am I. Wrapping my pristine notes in my scarf so they don’t get ruined, I shuffle my squelching feet. Ilić is late.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m seeing a different side of Novi Sad to the tourist-filled JUMP city of earlier in the summer. It’s a city whose economy and industry is experiencing a welcome resurgence after the state-imposed trade embargo of the nineties. Men in suits talk into smartphones and women in pencil skirts flip through folders and sip from paper cups as they march to work. There are very few teenagers with backpacks and henna tattoos or world-traveling students with dreads and deep tans.
The change is disconcerting. The city has moved on since I was last here. It’s like a different place, and yet Erin is still missing. She has been for three weeks.
Can she really come back from this?
In my lowest moments, when I truly believe she’s gone forever, I cling to the idea that maybe she wanted to disappear. There was so much theoretically going on in her life that anyone might want to run away from. Maybe she wanted to vanish into thin air. Maybe she needed to get away. When Officer Tierney first suggested it, I’d been horrified. But there’s something comforting in the idea that maybe it was her choice.
It’d be selfish, sure. Leaving her family and friends and boyfriend irrevocably devastated in the aftermath.
But her sadness was so raw, so deep, it was like she wasn’t her anymore.
And Karen said it herself.
“Whenever something goes wrong in her life, Erin lashes out. Not at the world, but at herself.”
It’s a thin theory, but it gives me hope that she’s not suffering.
Ilić eventually rounds the corner, red umbrella shielding him from the rain. I start toward him, and he stops to wait for me to meet him. This irks me and I’m not sure why.
“Morning,” I say, false-brightly.
“Carina,” he greets me, holding a hand up in a half-wave. “Hi. Good to see you again. Sorry I’m a little late—I have another case that’s taking up so much time.” He rubs his drooping eyes emphatically. “Anyway, let’s get inside.”
Gratefully, I follow him to the police station, but him telling me about his caseload has rubbed me the wrong way. Made me feel like Erin is no longer a priority—that other cases are more important.
We walk in silence, mainly because it’s impossible to hear each other over the pounding rain. I’m soaked through, fabric clinging to my damp skin. He doesn’t offer me the umbrella. Again, it irks me. Am I just supersensitive today?
Once we reach the station, we go through the whole interview setup and spiel again. At first I’m surprised our conversation is going to be recorded, but I suppose they can’t risk me saying something crucial and them not having it on tape. What if I arranged this meeting to confess? They can’t take chances. I get it. But suddenly my notes seem so infantile in the cold light of the recording equipment.
With the box-ticking monologue and never-ending admin complete, he asks, via Danijel, “So, Carina. Why don’t you start by explaining a little about why you wanted to schedule this chat today?”
I’m hyperalert, like I was the day of the thunderstorm. Every sensory experience is amplified: the cold wetness of my soggy feet, the faint hum of electrical equipment at work, the smell of Danijel’s espresso, the tiny pink blood vessels snaking over the whites of Ilić’s eyes. The scratch in my throat and the pound of my heart massaging my rib cage.
“I, um . . .”
Good start, Corbett. Really solid. Way to sell your theory.
Awkward silence.
“No need to rush, Carina. Take as long as you need. And remember: you are not in any trouble. Anything you tell us at this stage can only be a help.”
I can’t quit thinking about the way Paige dismissed me on the phone on Friday night. Attributing my theories to lack of sleep. I’ve since wondered whether she’s skeptical because my information didn’t fit either of her theories: voluntary disappearance on Erin’s part, or a connection to Brodie Breckenridge, who disappeared hundreds of miles away.
Ilić isn’t like that, though. He’ll listen. I remember our painstaking initial interviews, the way he wanted to know what brand of cigarettes she smoked with the bus driver, the color of the boats we hired, the ingredients of the soup Borko cooked for us. He’ll want to know this. I’m sure of it.
My notes swim in front of me. I snap my attention back to him. I don’t need my notes. I’ve gone over this stuff in my head endlessly over the last few weeks—I can do it from memory.
“Well, firstly,” I say, relieved I’ve said anything at all, “I found a twin pack of pregnancy tests in her jacket pocket back home. One was missing. Did Officer Tierney pass that on to you?”
“She did, yes. We’re very grateful for the information.” Smile. But no further questions.
“Right. Okay. Well, that was one of the main things I wanted to discuss with you. I know Paige mentioned cross-checking the purchase against her bank statements—was that fruitful?”
Another smile, but tighter this time. “You know we can’t discuss details of the investigation with you, Carina. But you can rest assured we’re still doing everything we can, and following every lead we’re given.”
I blush furiously. Why do I feel like I’m being dismissed again? I shake away the paranoia.
Although I want to bring up Andrijo, the last shameful time I did is imprinted on my mind. Anxiety on top of panic on top of fear on top of frustration.
“You have to talk to him again, again, again, until you get him. It’s him.”
“We have spoken to him. We’ve spoken to everyone who saw Erin that day.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry, Carina. We can’t discuss any specifics of the case with you. It’d be bad practice.”
Fucking bad practice. Everything’s bad practice.
I want to bring up her dad, too, but I really have nothing new to add, and
I know I’ll be met with a firewall if I try to probe, try to gauge how seriously they’re considering that fact about Erin’s life.
“Have you heard of Bastixair?” I ask.
They exchange a glance. Ilić frowns. “Of course. It’s one of the biggest employers in Novi Sad.”
“Right. And there’s a distribution center near Zmaj Jovina. Near the internet café she visited on Friday, July 10—Povezivanje?” I stumble over the pronunciation.
“Okay.” Ilić is looking blankly at me, and I’m about to explode with frustration, until I realize I’ve omitted the key link.
“Erin’s grandmother,” I blurt out. “She had Aubin’s syndrome. It’s a pretty rare genetic disorder, and she died four years ago from it. And Bastixair . . . a lot of their research is geared toward the disease. They currently offer medication to relieve some of the symptoms, but I believe they’re researching a permanent cure.”
I’m still met with baffled expressions. They don’t know what to make of this information.
Am I insane? Am I actually insane to believe this is important?
My breathing was ragged with excitement, but is now slowing with disappointment. “Erin was sending an email, on that Friday afternoon. To our boss. But she cut it off halfway through, and it saved to her drafts. Something interrupted her.”
“How do you know this?”
I lower my head. “I hacked her work emails. And tracked her location at the time using the messenger app on our phones. She had location services enabled.”
Ilić’s eyes widen. Have I just told him something he didn’t know? “Okay. Is there any chance she could’ve visited the same café in that blank hour on Sunday afternoon?”
I shrug. “I guess. Although she didn’t get in touch with my editor by email after that. Lowe—our boss—says she never heard from Erin the whole time we were there.”
Something else occurs to me. Why would Erin have been panicking about her lack of cell reception on the riverfront farm if she’d had ample opportunity to contact Lowe all weekend—and hadn’t bothered to do so?
Ilić lands on the same plot hole. “But you said she’d been worried about your editor being mad at her for being uncontactable.”
I nod slowly. “Right. And . . .” I hesitate. There’s still a trace of condescension in his gaze, like he’s dealing with a psychiatric patient. “And doesn’t the fact she cut off an email halfway through writing it, a whole two days before she disappeared, suggest there was something amiss before she vanished? Coupled with the lack of explanation for her worried demeanor?”
Silence.
“And doesn’t that mean,” I continue, “that she’s unlikely to have been sexually assaulted and left for dead, as the whole world is assuming? Because unless she was being targeted prior to her disappearance—unless she was being stalked—and she was worried about that . . .”
I trail off as I notice Ilić sit up straighter.
Have I touched on something they hadn’t previously considered?
Was Erin being stalked?
HEAD THRUMMING, I leave the police station with a plethora of different ideas all demanding my attention. A thousand puzzle pieces from different jigsaws, none of which will ever fit together. One from a battle scene, one from a fairground, one from a seascape and one from a city at night.
Bruises? Abusive father? Unborn baby? Brodie Breckenridge? Aubin’s syndrome? Andrijo and Tim? Stalker? Suicide?
I try to slot them together in different combinations, like I’m playing that old Mastermind game where you have to work out the pattern of the colored pegs based on what you’ve already discovered in earlier rounds. Abusive father and Aubin’s? Bruise and stalker? Unborn baby and Andrijo?
Nothing fits.
Ilić and I talked for a while longer. They’re going to take second looks at her social media and phone records, in particular at apps like Messenger and Snapchat, to see if there’s anything that could raise alarm bells. Anything that smacks of stalking.
Once I’d gained their respect again, I also mentioned the discussion I’d had with Paige about Tim’s tie to Brodie Breckenridge. I made it clear I’m not insinuating they’re incompetent, and I don’t expect them to share any aspects of the investigation with me, but that I just wanted to share some ideas I had.
For instance, I brought up the fact that on July 22, Tim claimed to have met Andrijo last year, so anything linking them before then would be enough of an inconsistency to question both men again. They didn’t sneer at me this time.
Karen is on her way into the police station as I’m on my way out—it’ll be the first time she’s met the Serbian police in person, despite the numerous phone calls over the course of the investigation thus far. She’s dressed immaculately in a cornflower-blue sweater and pristine white jeans, but her hair has a kink from where she’s slept and forgotten to brush it out, her foundation hasn’t been rubbed into her skin properly and her mascara-painted eyelashes have the clumped-together quality of someone who’s recently cried.
She greets me with a hug, asks me how I slept. I lie and say well. She lies, too, I guess. Overpowering perfume wafts off her, like she thought she could mask her misery with floral notes. Being here must be agonizing for her. Up until this morning, the city in which her daughter disappeared was just an abstract image in her mind—a towering fortress and pounding music and dark tunnels leading nowhere. Now she’s here; she can feel the pulse of the place, feel the energy of the people that live here, feel the absence of her daughter.
We agree to meet for lunch when she’s finished with the police, but she looks to be on the brink of shattering, and I’m not sure she’ll survive the morning without her heart splintering.
Somehow, being around Karen makes me feel closer to Erin. The same way her belongings felt loaded with sentiment, her mother is a living piece of her. A connection to the girl who felt everything so deeply she almost lost herself every single day. Because our souls are never truly contained within our bodies; they’re in the art we create and the things we buy, in the choices we make and the promises we break, in the people we love and even the people we hate. Everything and everyone Erin has touched remembers her. I feel slightly less bereft at the thought. She’s still here, even if she’s not.
She’s here in Karen, in her polka dot umbrella, in her blog, in Smith, in me. She’s here in the fashion cupboard at Northern Heart, in her falling-apart family home, in the fortress in Novi Sad. She’s here.
Or maybe I’m delirious.
I wait until Karen’s gone inside, then pull out my phone and punch the Povezivanje into the maps app. Because Erin was there, potentially more than once. And now I need to comb the café for any last traces of her, for the pieces of herself she left behind two days before she vanished.
POVEZIVANJE ISN’T FAR off Zmaj Jovina, the main street of shops and pavements cafés. On my way there I pass leather shops and Converse outlets, delis and cocktail bars, trash cans and wooden benches and streetlamps, and with every new thing I spot, I think of Erin walking past them just three weeks ago. Has it really only been three weeks and one day? I think of the Carina of three weeks and two days ago, when the biggest disaster I could imagine in my life was running out of Prozac or making sure my mother remembered to eat. Those problems felt so heavy, so urgent, so life-threateningly serious. Now they are dwarfed.
It also feels foreign to picture Erin as a living, breathing person going about her daily life. Sure, I’m forever remembering fragments of memories of her laughter, of her tears, of her pain, but imagining something so ordinary as her walking down the street seems unspeakably obscure.
It’s then I realize my concept of Erin as an organism has shifted from present to past, from living to otherwise. I can’t pinpoint when I started to consider her gone, but right now she seems so far detached from my current reality that
her existence feels a sheer impossibility.
And so, when I make it to Povezivanje, I’m breathless with guilt. I never meant to give up on her. I’ve done everything I can to keep her alive in my mind, explore so many possibilities that her survival is conceivable, and yet my subconscious has betrayed me regardless. Grief has a way of doing that, pitting your heart and your head against each other.
Povezivanje screams: “Look at how modern I am!” Lime green beanbags and purple sofas, all smooth edges and deeply uncomfortable cushions. Silver light fixtures, cheap and cheerful laminated menus, white linoleum floors polished to within an inch of their plasticky lives. Behind a bored barista, there’s a spaceship-sized coffee machine, in front of him a fully stocked cabinet of sterile-looking cakes, lifted straight from their wholesale boxes and arranged carefully behind the glass to look somewhat appetizing. A row of computers on an extended counter along the back wall, purple bar stools with Z-shaped legs perfectly lined up in front of them. Five in total.
For an exhilarating second I imagine searching the browser history on each to cross-check the contents with Erin’s dates, but then I remember she had her own laptop. The police seized it after she disappeared, and there was nothing remotely suspicious to be found. They wouldn’t have even considered questioning the unsent email in the drafts folder. Maybe now, in light of the stalker theory, they’ll reexamine the device, trawl through the trash folders and backup drives with a fine-tooth comb.
Or maybe, the paranoid part of me insists, they were simply humoring your outlandish theories so you’d leave them alone.
My heart’s pounding like a drum at a parade, and the guilt over my lack of faith in Erin’s survival still sticks to my lungs. I’d intended to go straight up to the counter and ask the barista whether he recognized my beautiful friend, but I’m still fundamentally terrified of talking to strangers. So I pull up a zigzag stool, boot up a PC, and when he asks me how many credits I’d like to buy, I swallow my fear and request twenty minutes of Wi-Fi and a cappuccino.
Perfect Prey Page 13