Page 39 of My Heart to Find

“Yeah?” Trevor asks. “What’s it called?”

“Damien the Detective,” Cara says before I can even think of anything. And the way she says my name, pronouncing each syllable in ‘Damien’ so richly, makes my heart pound. “That’s the series name, so each episode would have its own subtitle too, specific to the missing person.”

She speaks like we’ve really planned this all out. Wait—has she already planned out a podcast? I glance back at her, and her eyes on me. They look bright now, and I want to move closer to her. Want to hug her, just as we hugged plenty of times on the retreat.

Trevor clears his throat, and I turn back to him. He looks us up and down. “Okay...” But he says the word as if it’s more of a question, as if he’s trying to work out whether we’re playing at this or not. I don’t blame him.

“We’re a very small podcast,” I say. “Full disclosure. I mean, this would be for our first episode. But we want to help you find Marnie.”

Man, he’s not going to talk to us, I’m sure of it. And I’m about to accept that fact—and just how bad Cara and I really are at this detective work—when Trevor steps slightly to the side.

“Better having you than no one,” he says. “Come in. I’ll fill you in on everything.”

*

TREVOR’S HOUSE IS MESSY. Clothes everywhere, in stacks on counters and draped over chairs. Picture books lie open, scattered across the carpet.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says. “You mind if I finish making these? Cupcakes for Vivi, my daughter. I’ve got to collect her from nursery soon.”

I look up at the wall where I see many photos of a chubby toddler with the most cheerful smile I’ve ever seen.

“How old is she?” Cara asks.

I turn and see the way Cara’s looking at the photos of Vivi. There’s a sense of wonder in her eyes, and she looks happy, smiling softly to herself, as she looks at the photos. It actually brings a bit of color into her face—and it’s strange how memories are different to real life. Because Cara looks pale most of the time, I’ve noticed that, yet when we were in Mallorca, I don’t remember her looking pale. There, she just seemed more...vibrant.

“Three. Tomorrow,” Trevor says, heading to the island in the kitchen side of the open-plan kitchen-lounge room. “Take a seat.”

There’s one sofa that’s not absolutely covered with clothes, so I perch on one end of it, leaving space for Cara. She looks at it nervously for several seconds. Her hands are shaking. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she sits down, her back impeccably straight. She doesn’t lean against the cushions as I do.

“So, Marnie wanted to be an influencer, right?” I ask.

Trevor stares at me for a moment. “You’ve done your research.”

“Her Instagram’s open to the public,” I say.

He nods. “It’s all she’s wanted to be, ever since she was fourteen. I mean, she wanted to be famous ever since I’ve known her.”

“Since you’ve known her?”

“Our parents adopted her when she was six. Even then, she was the same—though she thought she’d be a singer, at that age singing was all she’d talk about. But then as she got older, it became all about this influencer stuff. And she’d started to get somewhere—so that’s why I know she wouldn’t just run away right now. Not like this. And especially not halfway through a dog walk. She’s missing.”

I try to concentrate on what Trevor’s saying—and I should be concentrating, I know that, because this is a case. This is an actual case. But Cara’s sitting so close to me. Her thigh is inches away from mine, and of course it’s making me think of all the times we sat together, legs brushing each other’s, on the retreat.

I inhale deeply, trying to clear my thoughts and focus on Trevor and why we’re actually here in the first place. Because this is my first actual crime a case. A missing girl. But a waft of Cara’s shampoo wafts over me and I’m inhaling it, inhalingher. It’s coconut, not citrus like in Mallorca.

I look over to the other wall and see a family photo: Marnie, Trevor, two other adults in their twenties who I assume are more siblings, along with an elderly man who’s got his arm around Trevor.

“So, can we have a look around her room?” I ask.

Trevor pauses, his hand hovering above his mixing bowl. “A quick look. But I’ll come with you. Just wait a second. I want to get this in the oven.”

I try to make small talk with Cara as Trevor pours the cake batter into cupcake cases lined up on a tray, but Cara’s all one-word answers now. She’s gone even paler, and her hands are gripped tightly together in her lap.

“You okay?” I whisper, leaning closer to her.

She nods. Doesn’t look at me. Just stays rigid.

“Cara?”

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