FIVE DAYS.
Olivia had been missing for five days.
Emma sat at the table in Mrs. Pickering’s cheerful rose-patterned kitchen, feeling utterly helpless. The muscles in her thighs popped with exhaustion from having wound her way up and down what felt like every street in Nottingham. To no avail.
Maybe Olivia was somewhere between Chester and Nottingham, but she could always have become lost or taken. She could be anywhere in Britain.
A little girl on her own.
Emma put her hands to her mouth, but not soon enough to stifle her sob. There was an abyss in her chest where her heart should be, missing right alongside her daughter.
Mrs. Pickering rubbed a hand over Emma’s back and put a cup of tea in front of her. Or perhaps she’d reheated the one from earlier that Emma hadn’t drunk. She could hardly think to keep up with anything other than the search for Olivia and hunting down updates.
So far there had been none.
“The WVS headquarters in Chester telephoned,” Mrs. Pickering said in a delicate tone that suggested she was afraid Emma might break. “They spoke with your in-laws and Mrs. Taylor confirmed some money was missing. So at least Olivia has the means to afford train and bus tickets and food.”
Emma nodded miserably.
“She won’t be hungry,” Mrs. Pickering added in a coaxing lilt.
Emma nodded again even as tears began to well hot in her eyes.
After this was over, when Olivia was home—and Emma refused to believe there would be any other outcome—Emma would be paying to install a telephone in her flat. No matter the cost. She refused to ever be in such a vulnerable position again. If Mrs. Pickering hadn’t had hers installed recently, Emma would likely have remained camped out at the WVS headquarters.
“The whole of Britain’s Women’s Voluntary Service is out searching for her.” Mrs. Pickering went to the window and lifted the curtain to peer out, as if scanning the street for Olivia. “I put a call out to every town and city. I gave a detailed description of her appearance and told them she’d likely be wearing a red jumper, one size too small.”
Just thinking of that red jumper gouged into the emptiness in Emma’s chest, tearing at the raw pain there as she remembered how proud Olivia had been when she’d received it, how she refused to get rid of the thing even though it scarcely fit.
Emma couldn’t speak about this a moment longer. Talking did nothing more than make the agony of the situation even more unbearable.
“How is Francis?” Emma asked.
Mrs. Pickering had seen to his care since his injury, stopping by the hospital on several occasions with fresh vegetable soup and to read to him in the evenings.
“There’s a lot more healing to do, but he’s in good spirits.” Mrs. Pickering flushed. “He said my vegetable soup is as good as my pie.”
The phone rang, the sound shrill in the somber flat.
Mrs. Pickering ran to it so quickly she stumbled, then righted herself and lifted the receiver. “This is Mrs. Pickering.”
She remained quiet as the other person spoke, their voice little more than a discordant tinny murmur from where Emma sat.
“Yes,” Mrs. Pickering said before going quiet again. “Yes.” The repeat of the word was a higher pitch.
Excited.
Emma straightened to attention and Mrs. Pickering gave a vigorous nod.
Hope flooded through Emma, her heart beating so fast, she felt dizzy.
“Canal Street, you say?” Mrs. Pickering nodded again, the glossy black phone receiver moving with her head. “Yes, please do try to fetch her. We’ll be right there.”
By the time she hung up, Emma already had her shoes and jacket on, and was pulling open the door to race outside.
“A tall girl matching Olivia’s description was seen on Canal Street,” Mrs. Pickering puffed, out of breath as she tried to catch up with Emma. “She was crossing the street, but by the time the woman got there to ask after her, she was gone. Likely into one of the shops, or down the street.”
Mrs. Pickering paused at the bus stop.
“No time.” Emma rushed on. “We can walk the two kilometers before the bus even arrives.”
“Go on ahead,” Mrs. Pickering called. “You’ll be faster without me.”
Emma picked up her pace, no longer walking at a clipped gait, but full-on running.
“Go find our girl,” Mrs. Pickering shouted from behind her.
Air burned in Emma’s lungs and her low-heeled shoes wobbled precariously with every heel strike, but she didn’t slow down. Not when Olivia was in Nottingham, and in a location she didn’t know well at that.
A spike of alarm tingled up Emma’s spine a fraction of a second before she caught the sound that her body instinctively recognized. The rhythmic hum of German planes.
No.
But there hadn’t been an air raid siren. How could there be planes without a warning?
Adrenaline shot through her, pumping her legs faster. Her heel caught on the pavement and twisted, sending pain shooting up her ankle. She rushed onward, her ankle growing weaker with each step.
Relying on her other foot, she limped on as quickly as possible. She would drag herself to Olivia by her fingernails if it meant finding her in time.
The throb of planes continually grew louder as Emma turned the final corner to Canal Street. They were nearly overhead now, the vibration of their engines so loud, it reverberated in the marrow of her bones.
That’s when she saw it—a flash of red in the crowd down the street as people ran for shelter.
“Olivia,” Emma cried. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her ankle, she sprinted as fast as her injury would allow.
But the planes were too loud. Too close.
Emma was nearer to the bit of red now, able to see the jumper plainly, how it crept up long arms, leaving lanky wrists bare, and the messy waves of chestnut hair that streamed down her back. The girl knocked hard on first one door of a private building, then ran to another, fist pounding in desperation.
Olivia.
A whistle sounded above and Emma’s veins turned to ice. She didn’t need to look up to know what that sound meant. A baser, more primal part of her already knew.
The Germans were dropping their bombs.
An explosion blasted behind Emma, loud enough make her ears ring and leave her skull feeling like it was going to shatter. She bent over, covering her head, while still keeping her focus locked on the red jumper.
The door in front of Olivia opened and a pair of arms drew her hurriedly into the tenement building.
At least now Emma knew her exact location. And Olivia would be off the street, away from the bombs.
Just as she had that thought, the planes blacked out the sun overhead. The bottom of one slid open, revealing the cylindrical tube within that sailed out from the belly of the bomber, down, down, down.
Emma froze, unable to move as the bomb sailed directly toward the building Olivia had just entered.