Be very careful what you do next.
I could just fly home, couldn’t I? I could forget all about the screen test, and Emily and Cortez, and just go home. Cynthia would be annoyed but she’d get over it, especially if I win the award in May. And if Kathryn Mayer and the studio are interested in making an offer then we could just reschedule a screen test once I’m back in London.
But I know that’s not true. No matter how much anyone likes you out here, everyone is replaceable. If I don’t stay for that screen test, I will lose that part. A role that would change my life. So no, I can’t fly home. I need to stay for the screen test; I need to get that role.
But I could report everything I know to Cortez after the screen test. Report it and then run back home. Although I’m not sure the LAPD would let me fly home straight after I’ve told them all of this. I’d be the only lead they had in the disappearance of Emily Bryant. If I tell Cortez everything, I’d have to stay even longer and I won’t be safe. I’d have given whoever wrote me that note a very clear reason to come back.
I finally have to admit to myself what I have been too scared to admit up until now: wherever Emily is, I don’t think she is alive anymore. Whatever game she was playing, she was playing with the wrong people and their patience ran out. The favor I did for her on Wednesday, that one decision I made, put my life in danger too. I’ve never wanted to cut and run so badly in my entire life.
I wish I could go back in time and change things: I wish George hadn’t gotten that job and run off with that girl. I wish I was back in freezing February London, oblivious to Emily and everything that happened to her. I wish I was safe. But I’m not.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. I hear my blood pumping in my own ears.
I have no one to blame for this situation but myself. I curse myself for carrying on my search for Emily much longer than anyone else would have. No one I know would have kept going. I know for a fact that Souki wouldn’t. Bee wouldn’t. George wouldn’t.
I’m not putting my life in danger to report a crime that even the victim wouldn’t report. I am not fucking dying for this. It was Emily’s job to report what happened to her, it is not mine.
And with that thought I stand, straighten my clothes, and head into the bedroom to make a call. I grab my phone from the duvet with the intention of calling Cortez and letting her know that I won’t be coming in but when I look at the screen I see I have a message I hadn’t noticed when I woke up.
A fresh flutter of dread dances inside me. Of course, it could be anyone texting me, a friend, my parents, work, but something tells me it’s not just anyone. I take a breath and open the app.
It’s Marla replying to the message I sent last night.
Today, 2:57am
You need to stop whatever you’re doing. I know you think you’re helping but you’re not. Trust me. Don’t get involved with these people. Forget Emily. Delete my number.
Shit.
I reread her message several times. She clearly knows Emily is missing and that something very strange is going on. That hadn’t occurred to me until now: that other people might be well aware of Emily’s disappearance but have clear reasons for not getting involved. I imagine how what I’ve been doing over the last few days must look to Marla; I’ve been out here stomping around, drawing attention to myself, like I’m deliberately trying to put myself in danger.
Marla knows exactly what is going on. She’s a real friend of Emily’s and she’s telling me to stop. If anyone should be reporting anything to the police it should be her, not me. She knows what happened on New Year’s Eve, she knows how at risk Emily was and the dangerous game she was playing with the men who took advantage of her. I should definitely take Marla’s advice. I do not want anyone else coming into this apartment. I do not want to disappear.
I take a moment, screw my courage to the sticking place, and type.
Today, 7:32am
Understood.
Two minutes later I’m explaining my decision to Cortez.
25
Not Safe
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 14
Cortez is happy for me to drop the missing person report, and why wouldn’t she be. I tell her I’ve been in contact with a good friend of Emily’s who informed me that she was aware of Emily’s situation and that I wasn’t helping. I made it clear to Cortez that I wouldn’t be coming in to report anything, because, it turns out, it’s none of my business.
After the call I immediately head down to reception.
The day receptionist is a man with short blond hair and a tightly pursed expression. I’ve never seen him before but then I’m rarely in the building at this time of day. It never occurred to me that Lucy wouldn’t be available to me twenty-four hours a day but I realize now she must only work the night shifts. She will have left already.
The receptionist looks up warily as I approach. “Hi there, can I help you?”
I hesitate for a second, unsure how exactly to go about getting what I need from him. Whoever came to my apartment last night will have been caught on CCTV and I want to see who it is. I might not be able to help Emily with her problem but I can sure as hell help myself and if I can find out who is threatening me or at least what they look like, then I’ll be a lot safer. Though the thought of seeing them on film entering my apartment makes what happened last night suddenly all too real. I obviously can’t tell the receptionist what happened; he looks pretty alarmist and I can’t risk him just calling the police on my behalf, at least not until I know what I’m dealing with. I need to play it extremely safe.
“This is a strange question,” I begin, leaning casually on the counter, “but do you know if anyone came in the building really late last night? I think someone was pounding on my door or something in the middle of the night.”
The receptionist’s puckered expression shoots up into an arch mask of incredulity. Another actor no doubt. “That certainly doesn’t sound like the kind of thing that usually goes on in this building but I really wouldn’t know what happens here at night. I work days,” he replies, gesturing to what I can only assume is the day. “Sooo…” he continues expansively and then stops speaking entirely.
I wait for him to continue but that appears to be the end of his input on the subject.
“Is there any way to find out who it might have been?” I try.
He shrugs. “Lucy might know.”
“Right. Okay…and what time will she be back?”
“What day is it…?” he mutters and stoops to check a green binder just beneath the counter. “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday…Lucy is in from six.” He looks back up at me triumphantly.
I wait for more but again there’s nothing.
“Okay, so could you perhaps take a quick look now at the CCTV from my hallway last night and see who it was? It would have been between two a.m. and four a.m.”
His expression hardens. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I’m not authorized to look through security footage. You would need to contact the management company about that directly.”
“Oh, okay. Could you maybe ask Lucy, when she gets in, if she remembers someone coming in at around that time then? It was the thirty-first floor. And it’s Mia Eliot, apartment three one zero eight.”
He looks at me for moment before sighing loudly and grabbing a pen and a stack of sticky notes. “Mia El-i-ot…apartment number?”
“Three one zero eight.”
“Three one zero eight. Right…unwanted visitor two a.m. to four a.m. Question mark.”
I think this is as good as I’m going to get from him. “Right. That’s great, thank you for your help. And Lucy’s definitely not in until six p.m.?”
“No, she is not.”
I guess I’ll have to wait until six then.
* * *