Page 56 of Just Another Missing Person

There it is, on a moody blue morning: a prelude, maybe, to a confession. A confession that could change everything. That could undo everything. My bad intention with the fake account. My promise to Yolanda to try to move on.

In the absence of the police, in the absence of any help given by anybody other than me, and on the freezing beach there—it’s the coldest spring on record—I write back.

Me: Hey :) Nice to hear from you—what do you mean?

Matthew: Oh honestly, you don’t want to know my dramas.

Me: Oh sure—we’ve all done things we regret, though—it’s okay to talk about it!

Matthew: Hmm. Anyway—I’d love to meet. Feel bad about ignoring you last year. Trying to sort of—you know. Move on.

Me: Sure. Love to. You’re local right?

Matthew: Yeah. Portishead.

Me: Same. So—why get in touch now?

Matthew: Thinking of some things I did in the past.

Me: What?

Matthew: Long story. I just—time to make some amends.

Me: Yeah?

Matthew: Don’t worry. I can’t say. But I’d love to meet.

That’s it. That’s all it takes. For me to act. If he hasn’t told me what happened to you, he might have told somebody else. And, if he is arrested again, the police can look.

***

Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I haven’t felt it for a full year, dulled by grief and constant disappointment. Suddenly, the Maltesers and the wine feel like a joke, a half-life. This—this is true purpose. Finding the man who took you. Bringing him to justice.

There was a sighting of you six months ago. Amounted to nothing, so the police said, but—God—that day. I thought my heart was going to leave my chest and fire up into the sky like a rocket. You’d been seen near the beach, near where we let you go, tried to consign you to the past, and there you were, again. Nobody else saw you to verify it. And, when questioned, the witness—an elderly woman, maybe seventy-five—became less and less sure. Definitely blond, yes, tall for a woman, a coat just like yours, but nothing else. Not enough, not enough, not enough.

And that was that. Nothing since. The case isn’t closed, it isn’t cold, but it is losing heat rapidly. Fewer and fewer resources dedicated to you, updates dwindling to, so far this year, almost nothing. Just pure, undistilled pessimism. You’re dead. It’s written on their faces when they talk to us. Funny,even the real professionals are repulsed. You can tell. They don’t want to get too close, lest it’s catching.

But now. Here he is.Experiencing regret over something he did in the past. He is on the verge of confessing it to me, and only me.

Funny, it’s all there, laid out for me, by me, past me, my subconscious, like I almost knew I’d do it one day. It’s all there. Olivia has a passport. Accounts that I created. All I need to do is step into it. To them. To invent my character, and then to make her go missing.

28

Lewis

It makes me wince how easy it is for Olivia to disappear, just for a bit. Just enough to rouse suspicion. Just enough to investigate Andrew again. Just enough for the police to want to know the following: why have two women he knew gone missing? What did he have to do with the second, and what did he do in the past?

I open my laptop back at home, sitting in the place on the sofa you used to sit when we watched TV. Just before you disappeared, we got really intoSelling Sunset. Jesus, that show really is trash. But compelling, I’ll give you that. For Christmas, the winter before you disappeared, you got me a mug with Jason and Brett Oppenheim on it. It’s my most prized possession; I never run it through the dishwasher.

A site advertising spare rooms has loads in the area, starting pretty much immediately. I try to find one that doesn’t require any vetting, just replacing a tenant, maybe, but I actually find one where the landlord is happy to dovirtual checks.

Dear Steve, I write, from my email. It’s an old account, but I swapped over the name. And, later, I realized you could actually swap the email address to a new one, samedomain name, and keep the history. Little O’s email account is therefore peppered with my history, things deleted that sound like me, but leaving enough to look like a credible history: subscriptions to mailing lists, online orders, drafts.

I’d love to take the spare room in Portishead. I don’t need to see it—I’ve just been let down and I’m desperate to move. I’d like to move in just as soon as you can, please? I attach a scan of my passport, hoping this suffices.

I glance over it, then season it with a few more of your phrases, just to make it sound like a young woman. But there’s something else, too: your voice comes so naturally to me. It lives within me, the way you always will. The thought of this makes my eyes mist over on the sofa. How can you be so vivid but so... nowhere?

Hope this is okay :), I add.Sorry it’s scanned sideways, lol.

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