6
September 30 . . .
Rick doesn’t tell me where he’s going—or who with. I wonder if he’s met someone else. It might explain why he’s behaving like this. But the clock is ticking. Our relationship is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand; the independence that once drew him to me, now pushing him away.
After he’s left, I get drunk. Not just drunk enough to numb my anger with Rick and the sense of insecurity creeping over me. I get blind, falling-over, forget-everything, throwing-up drunk.
It’s midday when I wake up, with the mother of all hangovers. Desperately thirsty and unable to keep even water down, I spend the rest of the day in bed, not even bothering to open the curtains. Screw Rick. If he doesn’t want me, he can go to hell. My cell buzzes once. Half asleep, I let the call go to voice mail, imagining a repentant Rick anxiously checking up on me, then wake hours later to find it wasn’t Rick at all. It was Abbie Rose.
Wishing I’d never told the police I recognized the person in the photo, I play her message, then, with a heavy heart, call her back.
“I was hoping you’d have time to see Evie again before you go away.”
“I’m not going. Change of plan,” I tell her. Why did she have to remember? A hangover is no place to lie from.
“Oh, okay. Well, when would suit you?”
Never, I’m thinking. Then, not knowing when Rick will be back, I suggest, “Tomorrow? Afternoon?”
“Can we say three o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Charlotte. I really appreciate it.”
I mumble something into my phone, then drop it on the floor, lie back, stare at the ceiling, silently cursing.
* * *
As I drive, I’m thinking about Rick. A year’s a long time, and we were never destined to be long term. But I still don’t really know why he’s so angry with me. I know I’m selfish, but I’ve spent a lot of time alone. It’s a form of self-preservation. When no one looks out for you, the only person you can rely on is yourself.
But as I walk through the hospital, it occurs to me that being here, as well as trying to help the police, is the perfect way to show Rick he’s got me wrong. Walking faster, smugly I imagine his surprise, his apology. No one speaks to me the way he did and gets away with it.
As I reach the nurses’ station, I see Abbie Rose deep in conversation with another police officer. When she sees me, she stops talking.
“Charlotte. Thanks for coming back. This is PC Miller. He’s helping with this case.”
I glance at PC Miller. He’s younger than Abbie Rose, with brown hair and clear, pale blue eyes, which hold mine a little longer than necessary.
“How’s Jen today?”
“More awake, but still very unsettled, as you can imagine. She’s been able to give us some more information about her daughter.” She looks at PC Miller. “You may as well go, Dan. I’ll let you know if she says anything else.” As he walks away, she turns back to me. “Come with me, Charlotte.”
There’s a different uniformed police officer outside her room today. The police are clearly not taking chances. As we walk into her room, Jen’s head turns toward us. Her eyes are agitated; worry is written all over her face.
“Evie? Charlotte’s here again.” As Abbie Rose says my name, I see it register with Jen, and she glances fleetingly in my direction.
“Hello.” I say it as gently as I can. “I hope you don’t mind me coming. The police thought seeing me might help you remember.”
Jen’s eyes are wild as she glances from me to Abbie Rose, then back to me again. “We were at school together, remember?” I persist. “We weren’t good friends, but I saw your photo and I recognized you.”
Wondering if I’m saying the right kind of thing, I glance at Abbie Rose. She nods.
Jen whispers something I can’t make out; then she reaches one of her hands out toward me. “Have you seen Angel?” Her voice is hoarse; her eyes are pleading with me.
“Her daughter,” Abbie Rose says quietly behind me.
Slowly, I shake my head, then say as gently as I can, “I’m so sorry.”
Jen’s eyes close as her head falls back on the pillow. I turn to Abbie Rose.
“We found an address for Evie’s aunt,” she tells me. “Jessamine Cottage, on the edge of Bodmin, just as you said. We’ve been round, but the house is empty.”
But as she mentions Jessamine Cottage, Jen’s eyes suddenly open. Then she’s trying to pull herself up in bed. “My . . . house . . . ,” she manages to say, her face contorted with pain, as one of the nurses hurries in.
“I’m sorry, but can you give us a moment?” Turning her back on us, the nurse attends to Jen. “Evie, you need to rest. Let me help you get comfortable.”
Abbie Rose looks at me, nods toward the door. I walk ahead and wait for her outside.
She’s right behind me. “So far, we haven’t found anything obvious at Jessamine Cottage. Can you think of anyone else who might live nearby, who might know her?”
I shake my head. “I completely lost touch when I moved away. I came back here only about a year ago. I suppose you could ask the school.”
Abbie Rose nods. “We’re doing exactly that.”
I’m frowning. It seems incredible that I’m the only person who’s recognized Jen. Surely, she has to buy food and fuel for her car. “Angel’s father . . . What about him?”
“We’re doing our best to locate him.”
I hesitate. “It makes you think, doesn’t it, if no one’s missed her, and no one’s come forward after seeing her photo, either she lived somewhere else, miles away, or she was hiding?”
I can tell from Abbie Rose’s face, she’s thinking the same thing. But whom or what was Jen hiding from? And why?