‘Not good to be honest,’ he said to Margot and me. Mum and Kathryn had moved off to the side to call the police even though I told them the other men chasing your stalker were the police. ‘Elodie’s my entire world. I know her better than anyone, maybe better than she knows herself. I just can’t believe she’s gone.’
Margot rubbed his arm reassuringly, and I felt a spike of annoyance that he was turning this into a grief-pissing contest. I’m not sure exactly what it is about Jack that pushes every single one of my buttons. I know, I know, he’s amazing, you think he’s woven from the purest cloth, but you’re not here to tell me I’m wrong, are you? So I’ll write whatever I like, okay? ‘Did you ever tell El how you felt?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That she’s your entire world.’
He pulled this face like I was a particularly difficult maths question he was trying to work out. ‘No, not in so many words.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Well, how do you think she’d have responded if you did tell her?’
He shrugged, and I could see he was trying to figure out where I was going with this. ‘I don’t know.’
Hmm, I thought, nice and vague. ‘Do you have feelings for my sister, Jack?’
His mouth twitched. I’m sure he didn’t like me reminding him you’re my sister since he’s under the impression you belong only to him. Beside me, Margot shifted uncomfortably, but she was interested too; I could tell by the way her gaze didn’t leave his face.
Jack smiled. Before he could answer though, Mum shrieked, ‘Martin!’ and we all turned to see Dad with Christopher and the others trudging across the park towards us. It was obvious from their slumped shoulders they hadn’t caught him.
Christopher was out of breath. ‘We don’t have a name, but we know his face now. We’ll find him.’
On the way home, I said to Margot, ‘Do you believe Jack when he says Elodie is his whole world?’
‘Yeah, I do. It’s no secret he’s in love with her. Well, no secret to anyone but Elodie.’
‘What do you think Jack would do if he admitted how he felt to her and she rejected him?’
Margot was silent. I could feel her drumming up the courage to speak. ‘He has a watertight alibi, Ada. It wasn’t him.’
Chapter Seventeen
11 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
I didn’t think I’d actually make the news. I thought Jack was wrong, and I would slip into the pool of missing women who only get a four-line mention in a local newspaper. That I’d become a notification that pops up on a phone and is swiped away.
But I sit on the big double bed in Wisteria’s master room, watching the TV and it’s so surreal because there’s my face on the BBC news. It’s the same image I’ve seen on every outlet. Taken at Ada’s rehearsal dinner three years ago. I hate this picture – it makes my forehead look too wide. Still, it’s out there. People are seeing my face. Hearing my story. Even though this is what Jack wanted, I feel guilty for causing a stir. For worrying people.
I imagine a woman my age sitting in her flat, eating her overnight oats, watching the same broadcast, and thanking her lucky stars it wasn’t her who was snatched from her bed. But I can’t bear to think about how my family are coping. It’s an oil slick of guilt. My parents haven’t appeared on the news yet. I’m dreading the day they do. Jack told me not to watch any segments with my family because it will be too hard. Even though he’s right, I don’t think I’ll be able to resist.
It’s been over a week since I vanished, but it feels longer. The gash on my upper arm could probably have done with a couple of stitches, but I’ve made do with thick gauze pads and sterile wipes.
My days are spent wandering around Wisteria and watching daytime television. It’s a bit like being off sick from work, only I’m riddled with anxiety and the novelty is starting to wear thin, even though there are far worse places than a five-bedroom house with sea views to be confined to. Wisteria is filled with draped fabrics and big pillows and cosy rugs in neutral hues. Everything is soft – the colours, the surfaces, the way the light filters in through the cream shutters. Kathryn was planning on selling, but Jack told me when it came to signing the papers, she couldn’t do it. Wisteria’s been in her family for generations.
A few days before I was taken, Jack came up to the cottage alone, stocked the fridge, and left clothes for me in the bedroom – his, mostly: T-shirts, a few jumpers which I haven’t needed since it’s only the last week in August, and pyjama bottoms I have to tie extra tight to keep up. Jack took the bloodied clothes I was wearing so he could get rid of them. He didn’t bring any of my clothes in case the police had my friends and family go through my wardrobe to identify whether items were missing. To get the media exposure Jack wants, all signs must point to abduction. People are drawn in by the dramatic spectacle of kidnap: the thrilling mystery of whodunnit, imagining what they’d do if they were taken, checking the news every day to see if a body had been dragged from a lake or discovered in a park by an early morning dog walker. So, I have nothing here which is my own. Including my phone. I still find myself reaching for it, to aimlessly scroll through socials. I didn’t expect to feel so naked without it.
As Jack insisted, I’ve stayed inside in case someone spots me – a hiker, a paddleboarder, someone drifting past on a kayak. I’m desperate to go for a run though. I usually go three or four times a week. This morning, I sprinted up and down the stairs until sweat pooled in the hollow of my neck but I still long for the breeze on my skin and the rhythmic slap of my trainers on packed earth.
My attention is pulled back to the TV as the camera pans down Crosshaven High Street and my pulse kicks. It looks tidier than usual, like the pavements have been swept for their big international news debut. Then I get a jolt as there’s an interior shot of Mugs. It’s glossier than I remember, like a film set. News presenter, Cathy Forster, is standing beside the counter wearing a dark blue suit, her short hair artfully swept off her face. She looks gravely into the camera and says, ‘Friends and family of missing twenty-eight-year-old Elodie Fray, from Crosshaven, Somerset, are uniting today in a bid to find Fray, who has been missing for eleven days. Richard Morris, Fray’s manager and close friend, is hosting a get-together here at Mugs as the community you see gathered behind me prepare to head out and search the woodland and surrounding area for the missing young woman.’
Close friend? Where did they get that from? Clearly, Richard hasn’t bothered to inform them I’m an ex-employee.
His face fills the screen. He’s sweatier on camera than he is in real life. ‘All we want is for Elodie to come home safely,’ he’s saying. ‘We’ve been handing out flyers, spreading awareness, and for every coffee bought, we donate a percentage of the earnings towards the reward for information which leads to the safe return of Elodie.’
I roll my eyes. Trust Richard to turn my abduction into a PR event.