See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist.

by Janelle Harris

  I throw him off-guard, and he misses the sink and cracks the cup off the granite countertop. The cup remains surprisingly intact, but David’s face is glowing red.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Amber. I’ve nothing prepared. I thought you were leading this one.’

  ‘Well, I was … but …’

  I sigh for good measure. I consider crying but then decide against it. I don’t want to exhaust every display of emotion in one sitting.

  I eyeball David. He needs to say something, but he’s looking at me like a rabbit in the headlights. Christ, he makes my skin crawl.

  ‘I can’t do it now. Not after … what we’ve done,’ I whinge. ‘I just … I’m just not in a good place.’

  ‘And what? You think that I am? Amber, I cheated on my wife, for God’s sake. Work is the last thing on my mind right now, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, it’s a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, isn’t it?’ I sniffle, not so much for effect this time as for a noise to mask the grinding of my back teeth.

  The pitch will fail today, and I will not be responsible, I decide calmly.

  ‘I’ll have to call in sick then.’ I throw my hands in the air and shake my head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ he says, pulling himself to stand straighter and taller. He almost looks attractive like that. Ben Affleck like, only without the American accent and great teeth.

  I throw my arms around his neck, and I feel him brace himself. ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I say. I even dare to kiss him on the cheek, and it startles him so much I can hear his breath catch in the back of his throat.

  ‘We can go over your notes in the car,’ he says, impressively together. ‘But first, can I borrow your phone again?’

  I look at him like he’s just asked me to donate a kidney.

  ‘I need to check on Emma. I want to catch her before she goes to work?’

  I drag my phone out of my trouser pocket, grunt, and pass it to him. I would warn him not to tell her anything again, but I already know there’s no need. He’s making the face he pulls every time he’s getting ready to lie. I’m used to it. He pulls that same dropped lip crap with me when he attempts to cover for some incompetent member of the team. I know him better than he realises.

  Three hours later, I’m standing outside the main doors of the canteen smoking and mulling over memories of this morning’s meeting. I haven’t lit up in years, but the pitch went perfectly, and the Boston guys were throwing their business at us before they even left the boardroom – thanks to David.

  One of the younger ones noticed David’s odd slipup, and for a moment, I was certain he’d wise his partners up before they walked away, but instead, he shook David’s hand and congratulated him on what came off as David’s first ever pitch.

  David took the praise like a gentleman. He even manged to slip in an apology for appearing so distracted, explaining that he and his wife had lost a close family friend recently. It was genius, really. It was also a cheap shot, but it worked, and David knew it would. He’s actually more difficult to predict than I thought, which certainly makes things interesting. The Boston boys rallied round, offering their condolences on the loss of the man I know David was barely acquainted with and didn’t particularly like. I actually can’t believe it. He had them eating out of his hand.

  The money about to be thrown our way in bonuses will come in useful, but it also means David’s position with the company is more secure than ever. That’s the last thing I want.

  Thinking on my feet, I take my phone out of my pocket and head back inside. I begin shaking as soon as I step into the elevator, and by the time I reach my desk on the fourth floor, I’m a quivering mess. My cheeks are rosy where the wind outside has pinched them. But I’m holding my breath for long intervals, and I’m convinced it’s making the rest of my face pale. I slink into my high back leather chair and keep my head down. I swing my chair from side to side as I toss my phone onto my knees and scroll through the notifications blinking at me.

  I find a Facebook friend request pending approval, and I click to accept it. The photo of a well-groomed Asian male trying to look sexy makes me giggle. It’s painfully blunt to me that it’s a stock photo taken from the internet, but I doubt others would be as observant. Half our clients are from Singapore and Malaysia, I smirk. It’s not unlikely that some of them would reach out on Facebook. People won’t think twice about it. I click through to the profile, and it’s glaringly obvious I’m Sun Lee’s only friend. I run my hand through my long, straight blond hair, and it must be screaming to any of my onlooking co-workers that I’m agitated. I screenshot the Snapchat messages before they disappear, and I download the photos attached. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and squeeze my eyes tightly, sending tears trickling down my cheeks.

  Some of my female colleagues race over to me. Inapt at sniffing out gossip, they pry into my wellbeing.

  ‘Oh, Amber. Are you okay? You don’t look well,’ one of them says, draping her arms around my neck like a shawl. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Something terrible,’ another adds, her hunger for a juicy scandal practically salivating from her lips.

  ‘Are you ill?’ a third colleague finally probes.

  I shake my head and continue to quiver all over like a leaf in the breeze.

  David finally notices the commotion at my desk and pries himself away from the Boston team, who are busy patting themselves on the back. They stop short of measuring testosterone levels as they congratulate themselves on a job well done. He scurries towards me. I can’t tell if the look on his face is concern for my welfare or fear that I’ve shot my mouth off. How interesting.

  ‘Amber, what’s wrong?’ he says, pushing his way through the girls surrounding me to place his hand on my shoulder.

  I spin my chair around to face him. The girls beside me step back but stay close enough to watch the drama unfold. I throw my arms around his waist. His suit jacket is open, and I bury my face in his shirt against his belly. He’s warm. Too warm. I can tell he’s hot and sticky under his clothes. My stomach heaves as his touch repulses me, but I don’t move.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, peeling me away from him.

  I sit upright. Rigid. And drop my bottom lip. I pick my phone up from my knees and pass it to him.

  He shakes his head, unsure what he’s supposed to do. His blank face is comical, and I have to disguise a laugh with crying.

  ‘Someone is watching me. Look,’ I say, pointing at the screen. ‘Read the messages. See what they’re saying. They know what I did.’

  David drops his head and stays silent for a moment as he reads.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asks, flicking his eyes up to meet mine.

  ‘I don’t know. Some stranger.’

  ‘It can’t be a stranger. It has to be someone you know. How else can they know what we …’ David cuts himself off mid-sentence, turning to face the group of our female colleagues staring at us.

  ‘Just ignore it, Amber. It’s bullshit, okay,’ he says impressively casual, but I can feel his hands shake as he passes me back my phone.

  ‘I had some weird text messages a few years ago,’ one of the girls pipes in. ‘Turns out it was an ex-boyfriend. Freaked the hell out of me at the time, though, so I totally understand how you must be feeling right now, Amber.’

  My eyes narrow, and she takes another step back. I don’t give a shit about her domestic problems. Her unsolicited opinion isn’t helping.

  ‘There’s more,’ I whisper. ‘On Facebook. A photo. It’s of the two of us.’

  David coughs loudly. It makes me jump.

  ‘Why did you post a photo of us on Facebook?’ He grunts.

  I don’t answer straight away. Redness is creeping from his ears, across his cheeks, and down the sides of his nose. I can’t tell if it’s temper or terror. David and I are Facebook friends. And, of course, he is friends with his wife. Any photo David is tagged in, Emma will see on her feed. But he’
s not tagged. Well, not yet, anyway.

  I allow myself a couple of deep breaths before I mumble, almost incoherently, that I didn’t post it. Someone else did.

  ‘Who?’ David barks, the redness of his face turning to purple.

  I shrug. ‘Sun Lee.’

  ‘Sun who?’

  ‘Look.’ I scroll through my phone and show David the profile picture on the account.

  ‘A client?’ David asks, just as I assumed he would.

  I don’t say anything and let him draw his own conclusion.

  ‘How did he get a picture of us?’

  David snatches the phone out of my hand. His aggression and urgency make our colleagues gasp. This is the best gossip they’ve been privy to since the janitor was caught having sex with the foreign intern on the photocopier at the Christmas party last year. David had laughed about it with the team until mid-March. I bet he never thought he would be the laughing stock of the next scandal.

  ‘This was taken at the weekend.’ David snorts angrily as he glares at the photograph of us sitting next to each other in the hotel dining room.

  ‘I don’t remember posing for a photo, do you?’ he says, his eyes burning into me. ‘Did you take a selfie or something without me noticing?’

  ‘You don’t remember a lot of things about that night,’ I snarl. ‘Your selective amnesia is rather convenient, isn’t it?’

  David’s bottom lip drops, and I hope he heeds my warning not to belittle me in front of our colleagues again.

  ‘This isn’t a real account,’ David says. ‘This guy has no friends except you. And look at this profile photo. It’s bollocks. Something taken off the internet, I reckon. Sun Lee is not a real person. It’s a troll. Just delete them as a friend and forget about it.’

  I’m about to say something to highlight how shaken I am by the whole ordeal, but David cuts across me. ‘And don’t accept friend requests from people who you don’t actually know in real life, okay?’

  ‘I never understand that,’ another one of the girls says. ‘Like, I mean, all these people with three thousand friends.’ She stands with a confident hip out and twirls a strand of curly hair around her finger. ‘And I’m just here like, oh no, you don’t. There’s no way you’ve got that many friends.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, right,’ the third girl finally joins the conversation. ‘I mean, it’s actually just desperate. Like the internet can be super scary. It’s totally freaky when someone is sending you messages and stuff like they know you, but they could be some random weirdo who just wants to murder you or something.’

  As irritating as their juvenile attempts to explain themselves are, they actually add a dimension to the situation that is really very helpful.

  ‘I think that’s a little dramatic, don’t you?’ David says, his arms making a shooing motion towards the girls, so they distance themselves from us even more.

  ‘Oh, David,’ I cry. ‘It’s scary. Someone knows. Someone knows everything.’

  ‘No one knows anything, Amber.’ David grits his teeth. ‘There’s nothing to know, anyway. You’re not the type of girl with skeletons in her closet and as … as ...’ David points toward the girl nearest us.

  ‘Giselle,’ she says, telling him her name with an unimpressed raised eyebrow that he didn’t already know it.

  ‘Yes, of course. Giselle.’ He blushes as if he momentarily forgot it, but I know better. ‘As Giselle says, it’s probably just a disgruntled ex. Look at you, you’re gorgeous. Any man who lost you would be beating himself up.’

  All the girls nod and smile, like I need the encouragement. I pull a face at David, wondering if he’s secretly referring to us. My skin actually crawls. He’d better not be developing feelings. That would ruin everything.

  ‘I can’t be here. I just can’t,’ I say, standing up, my knees knocking.

  ‘Okay, well, you can’t drive in that state,’ David says. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  I swallow hard. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  EMMA

  The smiling faces of thirty-two five-year-olds stare up at me as I stand at the top of my classroom. Their arms, some still chubby from baby fat they’ve yet to lose, are folded and resting in front of them on their school desks. They’re silent at last after finishing the usual morning routine of giggles and chatting while they take their coats off and stuff their schoolbags under their desk. It’s around this time every day that I reach for my three-hundred-and-sixty-five page book of one-page stories, open it at random, and prepare to tickle their imagination with my enthusiastic character voices. But not today.

  My classroom is my haven. I love my job. I love the kids. Thirsty for knowledge, their inquisitive minds fascinate me every single day. I’m a good teacher, or I certainly try to be. I give my all. I dry crying eyes when little legs trip on the playground. I encourage small hands to keep trying, and soon, they’ll manage to colour inside the lines. I cherish the rewards; their beautiful smiles, or a pair of sneaky arms wrapped around my leg stealing a cheeky hug.

  But today is different. Today, my brain pulses in my skull. Their young, high-pitched voices are like tiny spears attacking my head. It’s not their fault, I know. The wine is to blame. The fuzziness that I welcomed last night must be paid for with a searing headache this morning.

  The silence begins to break into giddy mumbles, and I know their angelic posture won’t last much longer.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, clapping my hands just once to gain their attention. ‘You’ve been so good all morning; I think you deserve a special treat.’

  A loud chorus of approval erupts, and it’s hard to believe that such tiny bodies can create such a big noise.

  ‘Shh,’ I warn, placing my finger against my lips.

  Silence only takes seconds to return, and I smile. I remind myself that it’s not their fault I feel so awful today.

  ‘How about we spend the morning watching a movie?’ I suggest.

  More cheering follows. I press play on the remote control I’ve been hiding behind my back until now and wait for them to settle down before I take my seat.

  There’s some arguing between the girls about who really is the best the Disney Princess. The boys are more united in their stance that all princesses suck. But within a minute or two of the theme song serenading the classroom, all their little mouths close and their eyes are fixed on the screen.

  Friday is usually treat day, and that’s only if the childrens’ behaviour all week has earned it. Monday morning is most definitely not treat day, and I know I’ll have some overbearing parents knocking on my door tomorrow morning, furious that their little one’s brains are being neglected. But tomorrow feels like a lifetime away right now.

  I spend the time the kids are engrossed in the movie sitting with my arms folded across my chest and my eyes closed. I don’t dare drift off to sleep, even though I’m exhausted. I’m not sure I could sleep even if I wanted to because I’ve too much on my mind. I had another weird Facebook friend request this morning before I left for work. This time from some girl in Boston. The profile picture was a bouquet of white roses with droplets of blood on the petals. It was depressing and morbid, and I don’t know why anyone would want that as the image representing their account. The cover photo was an overhead shot taken at some heavy metal concert—the type where everyone wears black and paints their faces or wears creepy masks, and the songs are all about killing yourself. Ironically, I hate that kind of music. I have enough demons in my soul telling me to hurt myself, so I don’t need some underweight, overexcited band screaming hateful words at me, encouraging me to slit my throat.

  No other telltale signs existed about who this person might be. Her account was set to private, so I couldn’t even investigate to find clues. All I know is we had no friends in common, and her name, which I’ve forgotten now, wasn’t familiar. Ordinarily, I’d assume the request was an error and forget about it. Ordinarily. But not after the weekend. A second request from a stranger in as man
y days is an unnerving coincidence. And Boston, of all places. I know David’s client is a big Boston company. Maybe Kim was right; maybe all of this is just one of David’s colleagues thinking they’re being funny. It’s possible Boston is supposed to be a clue; a hint to their identity. It’s distasteful and pathetic, but perhaps, it’s all a sick joke. I begin to hope one of David’s co-workers really does have a twisted sense of humour because thinking about the alternative is really freaking me out. I know celebrities get stalked online all the time. Crazy trolls get their kicks as they hide behind a laptop screen just waiting for someone famous to snap and reply, if only to tell the troll to piss off. I’ve seen the strange spats on Twitter, the ones that make entertainment news, and I’ve laughed at the stupidity of it all. It doesn’t seem so funny now. But why me? I’m a nobody. Why would anyone want to troll me?

  I jump as the bell rings, announcing morning class is over. Some of my more eagle-eyed students notice my jitters and giggle. All the kids wait for my nod before they hop up from their desks and race outside to play.

  I normally relish the opportunity to snatch a quick cup of coffee from the staffroom while the kids are outside, running off some of their built-up energy. This morning, I don’t move from behind my desk. I can’t face my colleagues. I know everyone will be chatting about their weekend, and I don’t want to talk about mine. I’ve already overheard some of the older teachers condemn my marriage due to David’s lack of presence.

  ‘Modern men,’ they often complain. ‘They don’t know how to be a good husband. It didn’t happen like that in our day. No wonder so many marriages end in divorce these days.’

  None of them ever say anything to my face, of course. They’re too polite. When the rumours do finally make their way to me, I can usually brush them off with a giggle and an insincere platitude that at least I’ll never get bored of David. I’d struggle to brush anything off today.

  I’ve barely had five minutes alone when a stern knock sounds on my classroom door, and it creaks open slowly.