Page 77 of Clever Little Thing

“Or I can take the girls and go,” I say. “I don’t want the house. I don’t want half of everything. I just want enough money for us to live on.”

Pete rubs his eyes, and I realize he is crying, properly crying, for the first time since his dad died. Whatever else he’s done, he’s also the man who took such good care of me, who held Stella skin to skin when she was born. “Luna. My baby,” Pete sobs out.

I would feel sorry for him if he were crying for both girls.

40.

After Pete storms out, I call Phil downstairs. I confirm that mediation is over and our lawyers will take it from here. By the time I get outside, a car is pulling up for Pete.

“Wait!” I want to discuss logistics. It would be easiest if he could stay somewhere else tonight and give me a chance to reunite with Stella and pack our things. That way I won’t have to come back to the house. But he jumps in without looking at me.

I’m desperate to see Stella, but when I check my phone, the next Uber isn’t for fourteen minutes. It’s just over a mile to our house, so I run. It’s hard to sprint, only a few days after giving birth, and I didn’t consider how much of the route is uphill. But the thought of seeing Stella—as herself, at last—makes me fly.

The front door is double-locked. My stomach lurches: we only double-lock if nobody’s home. My cold fingers are clumsy as I fumble with my keys. Inside, the overhead lights are on, as are the coppercluster lights on the Christmas tree. But the house is empty. I run from room to room, calling her name. A tangle of socks and underwear lies on her bed, the drawer upside-down on the floor. Her wardrobe door is ajar, and when I open it, the child-sized boogie board is gone, the one that looked like a blue fish with yellow stripes. I press one of her little socks to my face.

I call Pete: no answer. I call him again and again. I don’t have Kia’s number. No answer from Nathan. I run downstairs to Pete’s office and check the drawer where he keeps our passports. Empty, except for mine. “No,” I say, over and over until the word becomes meaningless.

Yet again, I’ve failed to anticipate what my husband is capable of. If only I had his ability to think several moves ahead, I would have found a way to hide Stella’s passport before the mediation session. There’s only one place he could be taking her: California. Five thousand miles away. He will get a lawyer. I’ll get one too, but his will be better. I might get her back, but it will take months, or even years, and before then, Blanka will end Stella’s life. She’ll drown Stella to get revenge on Pete because I couldn’t pull it off. On their first father-daughter surfing trip, Blanka will pull Stella under the waves, let an undertow drag her away.

My breath comes in little gasps. I have to stop shaking and get it together. Barely an hour has passed since Pete left the mediation session: enough time for him to jump in a cab to Heathrow, but not enough for him to board a plane. I still have a chance. I check Heathrow departures for flights to San Francisco, and for a moment I breathe more deeply: the next one isn’t until 7:05 a.m. tomorrow.

But I have to start thinking like him now, shuffling possibilities. He needs to get her out of the country as quickly as possible, which means the next flight that goes anywhere in the US. No, the next flight out of the country: Milan, Vilnius, Abu Dhabi. The nearest airports with international flights are Heathrow and London City.

I think about going to the police and explaining that my child-abusing ex is attempting to take our daughter out of the country, could board any flight at either airport in the next two hours. But how long will that take? I have to pick an airport and go therenow.My gut tells me Pete is planning to go straight to the US, so he can lawyer up, and you can’t fly there from London City Airport. I call Irina because her crazy driving is the fastest way to get to Heathrow. When she arrives, for once she doesn’t tell me she’s not a taxi service. She just squeezes my hand, hard.

•••

At Heathrow, Irina has barely pulled up to the curb before I leap out of the car and hurl myself towards the revolving doors. Inside, it’s painfully bright and busy. Queues snake through the airport: people in puffy winter jackets with ski bags over their shoulders, families on their way home from Christmas visits. Every check-in desk is crowded. But the rich don’t have to stand in long queues: he’s probably already at security.

I take the up escalator two steps at a time, then sprint towards security, lungs burning. The queue zigzags between belt barriers and then through a doorway in a smoked-glass screen. I thrust myself between and around people, leaving yelps of outrage in my wake. When I reach the official who is checking documents at the doorway,I have my passport ready. “My husband is taking my child out of the country without my permission.”

“Boarding pass?”

I stare at her. “I’m not here to get on a plane.”

“You need a boarding pass to enter the sterile area.”

She’s in her late twenties, wearing makeup so thick that her skin resembles that of a mannequin. It looks like it would be hard to the touch.

“Please. This is an emergency.” I peer over her shoulder, searching for Stella.

“You still have to be processed through passenger security screening.”

I can’t get her to meet my gaze. “My daughter’s being abducted. Please help me. My child.”

“Ma’am, in that case, you need to call the police.”

I draw myself up straight, smooth my hair. I need her to see that I’m just an ordinary respectable person who happens to be in a terrible situation. “Please let me see if she’s there. You can watch me. I don’t even have a bag. I’m not going to try and sneak a bomb through.”

I know what I’ve done wrong as soon as the word leaves my mouth. She flings her arms wide across the doorway and starts barking into her radio, calling for support. I raise my hands to show I’m backing down, stepping meekly away. Then I duck underneath her arm and into the throng of people on the other side.

The blue-and-yellow boogie board is about to pass through the baggage scanner. Stella is shuffling through the metal detector nearby, head bowed. Pete must have already gone through—he didn’t think to let his daughter go first.

“Stella!” I gasp. “Stella!” She doesn’t turn. I throw myself towards her, knocking over a stack of grey plastic bins. As I stumble to my feet, two police officers in fluorescent vests grab my arms. All around me, people are raising their phones to record, but why won’t anyone help me? The baggage scanner has swallowed the blue fish. I can’t see Stella anymore.

“Blanka!” I scream so loud it makes my jaw hurt.

“Ma’am, you need to come with us,” one of the police officers says, a young man with a carefully shaped goatee.

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