He smiled. Then he swooped down and kissed me.
I sank into the feel of his mouth on mine, into the hot press of his body. I was gentle, careful not to catch his split lip. Jack groaned, wanting more. He kissed me harder, until I was lightheaded and spinning; the only thing keeping me tethered were his hands on my waist, sliding beneath my top and along my bare back. His fingers moved to unhook my bra.
We were reckless and certain.
Young and wanting.
Breathless and wild.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
We sprang apart. Jack caught me before I fell. Jeffrey loomed behind us, his face twisted into a snarl of disgust.
Jack swivelled around and hopped down from the windowsill.
‘What did I tell you?’ barked Jeffrey, his Philly accent thicker in anger.
He shrugged.
Then Jeffrey was on him. He grabbed Jack by the throat and swung him into the wall hard enough to make it shake.
Jeffrey brought his face inches from Jack’s. ‘What did I tell you?’
Jack lounged in his father’s grip, like a bored model who’d had too many cameras shoved in his face, but his trembling hands betrayed him.
‘What did I fucking tell you?’
My heart beat so fast, I was sure it would crack a rib.
‘You hear me, boy?’
I wanted to get the hell out of there, but even if fear hadn’t rooted me to the spot, I couldn’t leave Jack.
‘I hear you.’
‘Fucking punk,’ he spat before letting go of him.
They stared at one another, chests heaving.
‘It’s time for her to go home,’ Jeffrey said.
Jack made to move towards me, but Jeffrey shoved him away.
The car ride home with Jack’s father was silent.
Jack and I have never talked about the kiss. It was like it never really happened, like it was a dream or a film. I thought maybe, understandably, Jack’s fear of his father outweighed his desire for me. Not wanting to cause friction between our families, I didn’t even tell my parents what’d happened. I should’ve, because a few days after Jeffrey’s overreaction, he killed himself. Maybe if I’d said something that summer, someone would’ve realised how unstable he was.
Years later, I got drunk on a dangerous mix of tequila and vodka and told Ada about the kiss and Jeffrey’s outburst. The next morning, she wanted to know more, but I was so ashamed of not being good enough for Jack, so guilty for not telling anyone about Jeffrey’s extreme reaction while he was alive, I pretended to have no memory of our conversation.
Now, since finding the basement room, my guilt has lessened, replaced by rage as I picture a small, scared Jack isolated in the windowless space for days. My hatred towards Jeffrey is ugly; I catch myself thinking I am glad of the bullet that cracked his skull like a watermelon. Glad he was left to bloat and rot in the August heat. Glad he died all alone.
I am curled up on the sofa with a blanket because the weather is unseasonably cool for the first week in September and I watch the news to distract myself. I get a jolt when I see my parents standing behind a pine podium lined with mics. On an easel to their right is a giant photograph of me – the one from my sister’s rehearsal dinner. Dad is thoroughly ironed and combed and crisp, just as he was at my graduation, except now there are shadows beneath his eyes. Mum is wearing a buttercup yellow dress and her lips are painted pastel pink. As though she’s about to host a picnic in the park.
Cameras flash. She looks dazed and I imagine there are spots dancing in her vision. My chest is tight; my ribcage pressing too hard against my heart as I wait for one of them to speak.
Mum clears her throat. ‘Thank you all for coming today.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice in weeks; it’s like drinking a sugary, hot cup of tea. She pauses. Glances down at the sheet of paper in her hands, and I notice how pale she is. And tired. ‘Our daughter, Elodie, is quick-witted and kind-hearted, she is beautiful and intelligent. She has been missing for three weeks and we want her back. We miss her terribly.’ She picks up the glass of water on the stand and sips it. There is silence as the reporters wait for her to continue. She takes a moment before looking directly into the camera. ‘Elodie, love, if you’re watching this, if you can hear me: come home. Come home. We just …’ Her voice cracks and the paper shakes in her grip. The cameras flash again. A symphony of click, click, click. I feel the sting of tears as I watch her holding back her own. ‘We just want to see you. We just …’ but she can’t finish because she has dissolved into sobs. Ada steps into shot and Mum folds into her.
Dad leans into the mic, too close. ‘To the man who broke into my daughter’s home and took her from her bed: return her. We want her back.’ He’s seething. The camera zooms in. He’s been drinking. I can see it in the redness of his eyes and the heaviness of his lids. ‘If I find you, I swear to god, I’ll—’
Ada swoops in, putting her arms around our parents and cutting Dad off smoothly. ‘Thank you to the media for taking our message to the public.’ She is, as ever, collected and confident. Her voice doesn’t waver with emotion like our mother’s or bristle with anger like our father’s. ‘And to those of you who have sent us messages of love and support, and to the police for their time and effort in searching for Elodie: thank you. That’s all we have to say for now.’
Then all three are escorted off camera as reporters yell out their questions.
I turn off the TV and sit in silence. I can still see my mother’s trembling hands, my father’s red-rimmed eyes.
Great, streaming ribbons of guilt tighten painfully around my chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.
What have I done?
How can I fix it?
My decision is made: I am going home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
20 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
You have now been missing for almost three weeks. I’m sitting alone in bed, nursing day two of this hangover on an aggressively sunny, yet chilly, Friday in September. I’m no longer young enough to bounce back after copious amounts of fermented grapes, and writing to you feels more doable than finding the remote to watch reruns of Dawson’s Creek.
Two nights ago, Mum turned up at my house in the early hours of the morning, barefoot and crying. It had finally sunk in: you are gone, you are not sunning yourself somewhere hot. We sat together in the lounge while she sobbed into her dressing gown.