Emmet

An hour since the news bulletin and messages were still coming in. Many were from Emmet’s schoolfriends and acquaintances.

How are you doing, mate?

Please let me know if I can help.

Thinking of you. Big hugs.

People cared about him, about Bridie. Emmet hadn’t known how much until now – hundreds of comments, messages, shares, likes and emojis – and he assumed that Bridie didn’t know either. His sister had been lacking in close friends, but people still liked and respected her. What was not to like? Clever, kind-hearted, a tendency to giggle, which always had the effect of making the people around her laugh and feel happier. That was the awful thing. He had never told her how great she was, how unique and smart and funny, how much he loved her, couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.

A new message popped up. From Nicolas Theroux.

Hi Emmet. This message is for you and your mother, as she has blocked my calls. I have spoken to police a short while ago about my whereabouts last night. I had a friend stay over as I was feeling very dejected and ashamed of myself. My friend has vouched to police that we were drinking together until the early hours of the morning. Please pass on my apologies to Rachel about my recent unacceptable behaviour. My wife’s death has made me clingy and phobic about losing people. Tell her she will not hear from me again. I hope you get good news about your sister.

Nico

Emmet sucked in his breath. The message rang true but maybe Nico was just a good liar. Dad was talking to family in Ireland, updating them on the lack of news. Emmet tapped him on the shoulder and showed him the message. Rory nodded once he’d read it: he seemed to think it was legit, too. Emmet forwarded it to Mum for her take. She was the best one to know if Nico was telling the truth. While he waited for a response, he resumed scrolling through the comments.

Sorry, mate, but your sister is definitely dead by now, some dickhead commented on TikTok. He immediately deleted the comment, but it was harder to delete from his brain. He blinked away images of Bridie’s bruised and broken body, floating facedown in water or buried in a shallow grave, or hidden somewhere never to be found.

The dad looks guilty as fuck, someone else pitched in.

Delete. Trolls and haters were part of going public. The police had warned them.

A fifteen-year-old can’t vanish into thin air. Somebody must know something.

Suss that they didn’t have the same tickets.

Two in five homicides are between family members. Pay attention to the statistics, people.

His family wasn’t the same as those toxic violent ones that made up the awful statistics. Mum had an affair: hardly the crime of the century. If anything, Dad was too determined to keep the peace, too non-confrontational. Emmet was guilty of not paying Bridie enough attention or appreciation. That was the extent of their culpability. As far as he knew.

Widening the definition of family, there was Tanya’s gang – no way – and Sean. If the statistics and haters were correct, then his uncle would have to be the number-one suspect. The bad crowd he hung around with, including his pervert ex-flatmate. A desperate need for money to feed his addictions. Access to private information relating to Bridie, as well as hundreds of photos.

Dad was still talking on the phone. Emmet opened his notebook and, using his torch, wrote SEAN at the top of a new page. Maybe Sean hadn’t been evicted and had wheedled his way into the house to be close to Bridie. Maybe he’d followed them to the concert, tricking her into meeting him before handing her over to some sicko. Would he really do something so terrible to his own niece?

But addicts were known for selling out their family and friends. Mum herself had said that addiction was stronger than love. And, according to the comments coming through on social media, there were people who would pay money for a young teenage virgin. Sick, evil people.