The plan was to fly back in the morning, but I’d only spend the night riding this wave of anger and confusion in the solitary confinement of my hotel, so I’ve rebooked on to a late flight. I’ll get some sleep at home before my showdown with Shauna tomorrow. As I stroll through the airport, I try not to speculate about Melissa’s secret, but still my mind slips into its darkest corners. I have a whole life constructed around the fallout from that night and I’m not sure I have the strength to rebuild the narrative, whatever it is. I wanted so much to believe Carol, that Shauna was ready to make amends, and now I have to face the prospect that she was lying to me all along.
I’m at the departure gate when my phone rings. It’s Mam.
“Lou? You’re not to freak out now, but Katie hasn’t come home yet and I need you to—”
“What do you mean?” I say as I check the time on my phone in a panic. “Has she called?”
It’s five to eleven. She was due back by ten.
“I’ve called her and I’ve texted her, but she’s not answering. Can you call her friends’ parents and check with them?”
I’ve never spoken to them. I’m not even sure I know their names, never mind their numbers.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” asks Mam.
“I don’t know the parents.”
“What do you mean you don’t know them? You let your daughter go out without checking who she’d be with?”
“Jesus, Mam, I don’t remember you being parent of the year. Do you want me to tell you what I was up to at fourteen?”
“OK, OK, Lou,” she says, “but what are we going to do?”
“I’ll see if Alex has the numbers. You wait at home for Katie. I’m sure she’s just pushing boundaries, you know what teenagers are like.”
“I certainly do,” says Mam. “And I hope you’re right.”
I call Katie and it rings out three times. I send a WhatsApp message in the hope she’ll read it, even if she doesn’t want to talk to me. But the two gray ticks don’t turn blue, no matter how long I stare at them. I check my parental control app for her last known location and I’m relieved and alarmed to see she was at a pub on Middle Abbey Street only twenty minutes ago. I have no choice, I’ll have to call Alex.
“I’m sorry,” I say over and over in the silence after I’ve explained.
“Jesus Christ,” says Alex quietly. “Let me think.”
The last of the passengers board the plane and I am forced out of my seat and through the gate.
“OK,” she says, “I’ll go over to Middle Abbey Street straight away, and you keep trying to get in touch with her.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t for much longer. I’m boarding now,” I say, my voice cracking with the strain. “Can you call Joe?”
“Jesus,” she says. “Yeah, sure. Call me as soon as you land.”
“OK,” I say. And then, “I love you,” but she has already hung up.
AS I WAIT FOR THE plane to take off I call Katie over and over, my heart pinned to the vacant pulse of the ringtone. Until it stops. The call connects to an out-of-area message and I lash open the parental controls. My chest tightens when I see her battery is dead, and her location has not been updated. I flick through her recent online activity for any clues, but there are only a few Google searches from a couple of hours ago. I usually wouldn’t look twice at any of that stuff, but I need to be sure I’m not missing anything.
At 8:35 p.m. Katie searched for “Will Pearson age,” “William Pearson age” and then “willpears age.” A popstar or an actor, I presume, but I find no evidence of any Will or William Pearson of note. As the cabin crew run through the safety routine, I find an Instagram account with the handle “willpears” and alarm bells start to chime in my head.
Will looks like the sort of boy who could charm any teenage girl, with his dark eyes and tousled hair and a sultry smile that sets me on edge. I click on a photo of Will holding a puppy and skim through the comments until I come to the one thing I didn’t want to see: my daughter’s profile pic and, next to it, the words “So cute!” Underneath, Will has said, “Not as cute as you,” and my stomach lurches, but it’s not enough, I need to be sure. I race through one photo after another, a whole series of flirty interactions between them, until I see a comment that leaves me in no doubt: “You’re not like other girls, that’s what makes you so special.”
It’s a line McQueen used on me, and probably every one of his victims. But I was seventeen and I already knew too much. Katie is so young, so innocent, I don’t know if she’d spot any of the warning signs. And that’s when it hits me, the search terms: she is with him and he is older than she expected.
“Excuse me,” says the flight attendant, pointing at my phone, “you need to turn that off now.”
“Yes, sorry,” I say as I lean down to the bag under the seat in front of me. As the plane taxis down the runway, I send a final message to Alex: “Katie is with willpears on Instagram. He is a predator. Call the Guards.”
And then I turn off my phone and beg, plead and pray that they get to her in time.