8
A mixture of emotions comes over me as I watch Jen’s reaction. Firstly, relief that Abbie Rose didn’t tell her it was me who had identified her. I hope she knows what she’s doing. It’s a huge shock to deliver to someone.
“No.” Jen pushes herself up, her arms clutched tightly around her body. “Who told you?”
Abbie Rose hesitates. “It doesn’t matter at this stage.”
“No! They’re wrong. I’m Evie Sherman. I live here with my daughter, Angel, and my cat. You know I am. I’m not called Jen.”
“You have a cat?” Abbie Rose frowns, trying to deflect her panic.
“Yes.” Jen’s tearful; then she’s frantic again. “Why would I have another name?” She’s desperate, needing answers.
“It explains the photo,” I say to her quietly. Abbie Rose is silent. “The inscription on the back.”
“No.” Jen shakes her head. I recognize her denial, however irrational, but then it’s too much for her to take in. She turns to me. “We were at school together, weren’t we? Please tell Abbie I’m Evie. . . .”
But I can tell she isn’t sure. I meet her eyes, then look away.
“The school has photos,” Abbie Rose adds quietly. “You were captain of the school hockey team. A very successful team that competed nationally. It seems you were the pride of your school. They have photos everywhere, even now.”
“I don’t understand.” Jen’s hands are shaking.
“People change their names all the time, Evie. For all kinds of reasons. It explains why we haven’t been able to trace any records of you. What we’ll do now is check for records of Jen Russell and Angel Russell. From the photo, we can assume that Nick knew you as Jen.” She pauses to let Jen take it in.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Her voice is dull. “Why did I remember my name as Evie? Wouldn’t you think I’d have remembered Jen?”
“I don’t know. Memories can play the strangest tricks. Maybe you’d been calling yourself Evie for some time, wanting to forget your real name, for some reason. So much of what’s happening suggests you were hiding. If you’re right and you were living in your aunt’s house, there’s the fact that no one’s looking for you. You must have lived alone and avoided people. . . .”
Including her husband, I can’t help thinking.
“And what about Angel? What if I’ve changed her name, too?”
“We don’t know at this stage. But we have her description, and that’s the important thing. Until your memory comes back, we have to keep an open mind.... But it doesn’t stop us from looking.” Abbie Rose hesitates again, looking at her more intently. “What was going on in your life, Evie?”
Jen’s hands are clasped tightly, her nails digging into her palms, as she stares silently at Abbie Rose.
“It may not feel like it, but with all of this, you must be getting closer to what really happened,” I interrupt, wanting Jen to hear something more positive. And it’s true, surely. “You have to trust the police, Evie.”
From a place where nothing makes sense, it must feel impossible to her, but it’s all she can do. Trust in the police, even in me. That people are doing what they can. It’s her only way through this.
“I need to make a call. Can you stay a little while?” Abbie Rose is looking at me.
I nod. “Of course.” This time, she goes out to make the call. When she’s gone, I turn to Jen. “Is there anything I can do?” I don’t know what else to say to her.
Her eyes blank, she shakes her head. I strain my ears to hear what Abbie Rose is saying on her phone, but she’s too far away.
“Charlotte?”
I turn back to look at Jen. Trapped in her fragmented world, she looks frightened witless.
“Thank you . . . for being here.”
“It’s okay. . . .” I’m flustered, not sure what to say, because there’s nothing I can do to help her. Then Abbie Rose comes back in.
“Evie? Someone at the station found a press cutting.” Abbie Rose pauses, as though trying to gauge Jen’s reaction. “It’s about Jen Russell’s—your—engagement. Sara’s e-mailing it to me as we speak. Constable Evans,” she adds, noticing my frown. “This is probably it now.” As her phone pings, she scrolls down to find it. “Here. It says you were engaged to a man named Nicholas Abraham. It was announced in the local paper six years ago. I’ll read it to you. Mr. and Mrs. Nigel Russell announce the engagement between Nicolas Abraham and their daughter Genevieve. . . .”
Genevieve. Jen. Evie.
“It explains the name you chose.” Abbie Rose is thinking the same thing.
But tears are streaming down Jen’s face. “My parents?” she whispers, her eyes searching the policewoman’s.
“Sara’s trying to find out more, but your father’s dead, Evie. We’re trying to locate your mother,” Abbie Rose tells her gently. “But at least now we should be able to find Nick.”