We rang off, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how Ethan dismissed me. Perhaps he was just tired. Had a long day. We’d talk about it when he was out of the shower and then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty for opening up to Christopher.
I finished cleaning and went upstairs. Ethan was already asleep, sprawled across our king-sized bed. I stood over him, hurt, then I got changed into pyjamas, banging about louder than needed in a pathetic, passive-aggressive attempt to wake him before climbing into bed beside him. I scrolled through my phone, through all the well-wishers, through the people I haven’t spoken to since secondary school, through strangers and friends alike. I don’t know if they’re kind-hearted or morbidly fascinated. I didn’t reply to any of them, but I did think, look at all these people who want me to talk to them about you, about how I’m coping, and look at my husband who’s snoozing soundly.
From my nightstand drawer, I pulled out Elodie, the tiny Sylvanian rabbit. I’d gone up into the attic earlier and brought her down, saddened I’d left her up there all alone for so long. I fell asleep with her held tightly in my hand.
In the morning, Elodie was still there, but my husband wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Two
18 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
Today, I am twenty-nine.
Before I can let my lack of achievements creep up on me, I push them aside. I shower, dress, and head downstairs. ‘Do You Love Me’ by The Contours – the soundtrack to my youth – blares loudly from the kitchen. The smell of sugary batter hits me as soon as I step inside. Jack is at the stove, making pancakes. He rolls his shoulders, his back muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt. ‘Happy birthday, Fray,’ he calls. In one smooth motion, he tosses the pancake into the air – it spins, crisp and golden – before landing in the pan. He bows, pleased with himself, and I clap.
Surrounded by balloons filled with copper-coloured confetti, jugs of wildflowers and birthday bunting, we eat together. But guilt mixes with the maple syrup and fluffy pancakes because, even with all the effort Jack has made, I’m missing my family. Knowing it wouldn’t be fair to admit this, after all the effort he’s gone to, I eat and smile and thank him over and over. When we’re done, he says, ‘What’s next?’
‘Cake please.’
‘Who said I have cake?’
‘It’s a birthday, there’s always cake. It’s a cardinal, birthday-celebration rule. Besides, I saw muffins.’
‘Muffins are addictive. Sure you want to start down that dark path, Fray?’
‘Because they’re a gateway drug?’
‘Absolutely. One minute you’re biting into a blueberry and poppyseed and the next you’re sitting in your chocolate-ganache-stained pants strung out on gateau and wondering what time of day it is.’
I laugh.
‘Anyway,’ he whispers. ‘Close your eyes.’
I do as he says. The insides of my lids are painted red by the sun streaming through the window. I hear him behind me. A cupboard door opening. Something being taken from it. The rustle of tissue paper. Then, I hear the smile in his voice, as soft as silk against my ear. ‘Open them.’
A mint-coloured box sits on the table in front of me, tied with a thick cream ribbon. There’s a prickle of excitement as my fingers catch the satin. Inside is a green lace dress. Expensive. Beautiful.
‘Jack, this is stunning.’
‘And this too,’ he says, producing a smaller, second gift box from behind his back.
Inside is a pair of dark green silk pyjamas. I haven’t worn women’s clothes in weeks and I’ve never owned pyjamas as beautiful as these.
‘To replace the ruined ones.’ The set I was wearing the night I was taken were from a supermarket.
‘You really shouldn’t have.’
Jack’s mobile rings. He pulls it from his pocket and frowns at the caller ID. ‘It’s the St Ives banker; I’ve got to take this. Reception is better out front.’
When he’s gone, I start clearing away the plates. When I make pancakes, there’s batter on the countertop and a stack of utensils in the sink, but the only evidence of Jack having made anything are the leftovers and crockery we used. I carry everything to the sink, but we’re out of washing-up liquid so I wander into the utility room off to the side of the hallway.
But, as I’m searching through storage baskets, I accidentally knock a bottle of detergent behind the metal shelving unit. Sighing, I drag the unit away from the wall to retrieve it.
Then I see it.
A door. It’s painted the same eggshell white as the walls. If I hadn’t physically moved the shelving unit, I’d never have discovered it. This isn’t the entrance to the basement; that’s on the other side of the house. There are two deadbolts on the outside and a keyhole lock beneath the handle.
A feeling of wrongness slips down my spine. I slide the bolts out of their holsters. They’re stiff, like they haven’t been used in a long time. My fingers curl around the door handle, my heart beating a little faster. Maybe I should wait for Jack. Or … I push down on the handle. It’s locked.
In the hallway, I peer through the window, but Jack is still on the phone, and I don’t want to disturb him, so I search the little grey-painted key box mounted on the wall beside the front door. Ada has the same one, bought as a Christmas present by Kathryn last year. I pluck all the keys from their little hooks and try each one until I hear the unmistakable click of success. Then I stare down into yawning darkness. When I flip the switch on the pantry-side wall, the basement is bathed in artificial light. Carefully, I make my way down the narrow stairs and realise the basement is split into two halves. The half I’ve always known is full of old kayaking equipment, but this half has the makings of a bedroom with its double bed, nightstand and chest of drawers. I try to open them, but they’re locked. To the right of the bed is a second door which leads into a little bathroom with a tiny shower cubicle, a toilet and a sink. I turn back to the nightstand and try the top drawer. It opens easily. Inside are loose sheets of paper, stationery, a CD, and an old Nokia, which I pick up eagerly, wondering if it would still work.
‘Elodie?’
I jump. The Nokia flies from my hand, hits the floor and skitters beneath the bed.
Jack is standing on the stairs.
‘Did you know this place was here?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘How did I not know about a secret room?’
‘Didn’t know it was a secret.’
‘It was hidden behind a shelving unit!’
‘Not very well if you found it.’
He’s trying to be breezy, like it’s perfectly normal to have a secret basement room in your house. No different from having windows or light switches. ‘Jack, why didn’t I know about this place?’
He casually scratches the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Casually shoves his hands into his pockets. Casually makes his way further down the stairs. Only, there is nothing casual about Jack right now. He’s uncomfortable. Why is he uncomfortable?
‘Jack?’
‘I don’t like this room. Let’s go.’
‘Why?’
He looks away.