Sean raises his eyebrows. ‘Not really, but I suppose it’s better to have eyes on the bloke most likely to nick my gear.’
‘I’m not that stup … Hey, there he is.’ Amber points towards the entranceway, then morphs the gesture into a wave. Jess quickly turns, stares. The boy walks towards them, gives Jess an embarrassed nod, then hangs one arm over Amber’s shoulder. He’s tall, but not as muscular as Amber usually goes for. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed. Nothing like Sean. So not her type at all really.
‘Hey man, I’m Caden,’ he says to Sean. ‘It’s good to meet you; Amber talks about you a lot.’
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Saturday 4th May
Rachel
I rest my forehead on the kitchen table and clench my fists in my lap. I’m both exhausted and agitated. My body hangs heavy, but my limbs are twitching. I rear back up, eye my phone for the millionth time. But there are no new messages from Matt. There was a flurry at first – Not at Ava’s, party def over; No sign of life at pub; Rec and churchyard empty. But there’s been nothing since the message Will keep looking. And that was an hour ago.
I’ve done my part too. Woken Felix up, opened his wound of rejection by telling him his ex-girlfriend hasn’t come home. In return he told me – stonily – that he hadn’t seen her all night. After almost begging him, he did check the map function on Snapchat for me, but it put Milla at home, and the timings tallied with when she came back. She hasn’t used the app since, which is why no new location has been uploaded.
I consider phoning her friends, but who would I call? Ava is Milla’s best friend, and I already know she isn’t there. Otherwise, she has a wide social group, but no one that stands out. And it’s nearly 2 a.m. I can’t wake up a dozen girls – or even worse, their parents – on the off chance.
I push up to standing, then immediately fold over the wooden worktop. Was it really just a few hours ago that I was dipping a poppadom into mango chutney and worrying about Lucy’s underwear being scattered on the school lawn? And a few hours before that, reassuring Mrs Gray that lashing out at her autistic toddler doesn’t have to define her?
Bile forms in my mouth as I imagine something violent happening to Milla. A drunk man attacking her on his way home from the pub. Or a rejected husband cruising past in his car. Or maybe just a sick mind taking advantage of a young woman, alone, vulnerable in the darkness.
I can’t do this anymore.
I pick up my phone, prod Matt’s number. He picks up after half a ring. ‘Is she home?’ he asks desperately.
‘We need to call the police, Matt.’
He sighs. His millisecond of hope extinguished. ‘No, not yet. I’m still looking. I’m sure I’ll find her.’
‘We haven’t heard from her for nearly three hours. We need people out there, Matt, police officers, searching for her.’
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I listen to his heavy breathing as he tries to control his emotions. I know how much he hates the police. It hasn’t always been the case – a hardworking grammar school student from the outskirts of Manchester didn’t have much cause to – but that changed when he was arrested for assault, in front of his colleagues, at the school he’d spent most of his teaching career.
‘They’ll twist things,’ he moans. ‘Say it’s our fault, that we’re bad parents for letting her go out by herself in the dead of night. Christ, Rachel, we are bad parents!’
‘I know!’ I wail back. ‘But we can’t let that stop us. This is about Milla, not us.’
Matt goes silent and I imagine him alone in the car, both hands gripping the steering wheel, his face tightening as he interprets my plea as a reprimand.
‘You’re right,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ll come home. We can call them together.’
We hang up and I feel both relieved and petrified. Contacting the police will hopefully draw an army of specialist help, but it will also make Milla’s disappearance feel more real. Transform her from a teenager behaving badly into a potential victim. Suddenly the house feels too empty. I think about Lucy upstairs, fast asleep, oblivious to the trauma of her missing sister. I won’t wake her, but I feel a compulsion to look at her.
I walk up the stairs slowly, then pause outside her room. The door is closed, like usual, and I take my time pushing down the handle so that I don’t make a noise. I expect there to be total darkness, but there’s a light glowing as I edge the door open. And when I can see more, I realise that Lucy isn’t in bed after all. She’s sitting at her desk with her back to me – her laptop screen the source of the light. She’s flicking between websites, and there’s a sense of frustration in the way she taps at her keyboard. I hesitate, unsure whether to announce my presence or retreat. But before I get a chance to decide, she whirls around, then flips down her screen.
‘Mum? What’s going on?’
‘I thought you’d be asleep,’ I say. I don’t want to tell her that Milla is missing, that her own brief disappearance might have led – however indirectly – to something much worse.
She drums her nails on the closed laptop lid. ‘I tried, but I couldn’t switch off.’
‘Being on a screen won’t help,’ I say. ‘The blue light keeps you awake.’ It’s the automatic response of every parent, but Lucy has always preferred sketchbooks and journals to electronic devices, so it’s something I’m much more used to saying to Milla. My eyes grow hot as memories flash up in my mind. What I would give to find Milla scrolling through TikTok under her duvet right now.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Lucy says with an apologetic half-smile. ‘I’ll give it another try.’ She unfurls her legs from her desk chair and makes the few steps over to her bed. As she falls against her pillow and pulls the covers over her head, I’m surprised that she hasn’t grilled me on why I’m still awake. A slow wave of sadness rolls over me as I realise how much this bullying must be affecting her. As though her mind is so full of it that there’s no room to notice life happening around her. I feel a stab of self-loathing for taking so long to figure it out, which morphs into a fireball of regret as I close her bedroom door.
Why did I allow Milla to search for Lucy by herself?
How can I love my kids so much and still make so many mistakes?
I suddenly feel exhausted and wonder if I’m going to collapse, right outside Lucy’s bedroom door. But then I hear a rustling coming from the porch, and the door swing open. Matt is home. I take a breath and walk back downstairs.
My eyes widen. I waver. I reach for the back of the sofa. ‘Milla?’
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Have you been worried? Have you been looking for me?’
She’s standing just inside the house. Her hair and clothes are wet, no jacket, but otherwise she looks the same as she did a few hours ago. Alive. Unhurt. Indestructible.
‘Jesus, Milla!’ I screech. It’s loud. The realisation that I’m going to wake the neighbours registers somewhere, but I can’t hold back. All the pent-up fear is escaping through my open mouth. ‘It’s two in the morning, of course we’ve been looking for you! Where on earth have you been?!’
She leans back against the porch door and pushes her lips together. Even as adrenalin courses through my body, I can see that she’s conflicted. Her instinct is to shout back, to deny wrongdoing. But she’s also smart enough to know how her disappearance will have affected us.
She lets out a deep sigh. ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ she says begrudgingly. ‘But it wasn’t my fault. My phone died, then it started raining. And my foot was hurting; I think I’ve got a blister. So I sat on a bench by Kiln Lakes, just to rest for five minutes. But then I started thinking about Felix, and what the fuck happened to us. I probably drank a bit too much at the party, I guess. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up, and a couple of hours had passed. I ran home as soon as I realised. It was just one of those things. And now my foot’s killing me.’
I look up at the ceiling. The light wobbles under my teary gaze. No angry drunk or resentful ex-husband attacking my daughter. No psychopath hunting for prey. No crime at all. Just Milla doing what she so often does. Exactly what she bloody well wants.
I slink down into the sofa and close my eyes.
AFTER
