Page 26 of Just Another Missing Person

“Andrew Zamos. He’s not a nice person.”

You met him a few months ago. At an after-work thing. You described it to me so well, do you remember? A meet-cute on a cold balcony, outside a wanky drinks reception, you said—par for the course in the corporate world, right? You escaped to look at the skyline, and there he was. Said you looked bored, which was correct. You stayed out there together for two hours, until your cheeks were pink and your feet numb. Your colleagues came and went, and still you chatted. Didn’t catch a breath, you said. You didn’t swap numbers but, a week later, he added you on socials.

I met him only two weeks after that. I thought he was leaning in to shake my hand, but he was reaching to push the front door open, behind me. Of my own house.

Two weeks afterthat, you said you were going to be together forever.

Yolanda interjects. “I’m not sure he’s not nice. He’s—you know, a bit insecure, socially awkward...” she says. She’sseen a lot ofhis type, so she says, at work. Has more empathy than me, perhaps.

“He’s an arsehole,” I say. But—in what way, precisely, he is an arsehole is hard for me to say. Each anecdote sounds like nothing, as thin as gossamer, which I’m sure is his intention. Coercive control. That’s what it is, isn’t it?

Day takes Poole’s pen straight from his hand and writes a perfectly formed bullet point. “How long?”

“Three months, tops. It’s volatile, I would say.”

“Isit volatile?” Yolanda says. “Look.” She tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear that’s fallen from her plait. “It’s worth looking into. But, if you want to know, I have never worried about it.”

I cross my arms. “Well, I have.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Day says, looking at me. “Okay?”

“Good.”

“But don’t over-focus on him,” Yolanda says quickly. She looks at me, her expression saying,Don’t you dare fucking challenge me, and I don’t.

“What do you mean by ‘volatile’?” Day asks.

“It isn’t volatile,” Yolanda says.

“They do fall out a lot,” I say. I’m trying to be measured. Even though I’m doing all this to help you, I still feel guilty. Like showing the inside pages of a diary to someone else.

“Why?”

“In my opinion, because... like, for example, he once said,Are you going to come and watch me play football, or just not bother?She said she already had plans—and he said... I will remember it:No need to factor me in. Then he got in her way on the landing, I saw it.”

“Okay, so physically blocked her way?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Would you say he’s often intimidating?”

“He chipped away at her—mostly with those kinds of comments.” As I say this, Yolanda shifts in her chair. “He accuses her of overreacting if she behaves in the same way as him. Obviously, you know—you can’t control your own children...”

“Sadly not,” Day says drily. “But this leads to arguments—between them?”

“Exactly. One time, he was mad she was late for something important—meeting his friends for the first time. He got angry, called her up, demanded to know where she was. She was with me. And it had been ten minutes? She had just been faffing before leaving.” I bite my lip. I can’t conceptualize it for the police in a way that makes it sound as serious as it is. His dismissals of you. So careless, as though you were a fly, buzzing at his temple in the summer heat. His tone. His sanctimony. It’s as intangible as smoke. Just thinking about it makes my temperature rise like I have the flu. “Plus, whenever she has plans, he wrecks them. Gets food poisoning, or whatever, then miraculously recovers when she cancels.”

“Would you say he has ever taken his temper out on her?” Day asks. She has to raise her voice just slightly: the police station has a flat roof, above us, and rain has begun to hammer down on it outside.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But it’s a pattern of behavior, isn’t it? He thinks he can tell her what to do. One time when they were over, early on, her phone rang at dinner, and he reached out and declined the call for her.”

“Hmm,” Day says.

“Or what about”—I say, desperate now, desperate for her to see how it really was—“another time, the two-monthanniversary of when they met, or something, I heard him say,Let me be clear—you’re not seeing them tonight. It’s me.”

“So—controlling her friends?”

“Exactly. And right before she disappeared, he said to her—I thought jokingly, at the time—Man, I swear to God, I’d like to just keep you somewhere all to myself.”

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