The Disappearing Act(57)

I try to think straight, to calm myself, because it must be here. Somewhere. I search the living room floor again, and that’s when I realize that Emily’s phone isn’t here either. I freeze. This time I definitely haven’t moved things myself.

I let my eyes travel back to the coffee table. Emily’s apartment keys, rental agreement, and photograph are no longer here either.

I grab my handbag from beside the sofa and empty its contents out onto the floor, hoping that somehow some of what’s missing will tumble out. It doesn’t.

My hand flies to my mouth. Oh my God, there’s no doubt about it now, someone really did come into the apartment last night while I was asleep. And while I was in the next room, they took Emily’s things.

My eyes fly to the hallway. And I’m off, my socks skidding across the slippery wooden floor toward the faulty security system. I pull up sharply in front of the door but nothing is out of place. I try the door handle; it’s still locked.

Whoever it was must have come in with a key. I think of my lost keycard a few days ago then dash into the bedroom trying to keep my breathing calm and steady. Next to the bed, my own laptop is plugged into the wall; my phone is on the sheets beside my pillow. My things are here, only Emily’s are gone. Whoever came in to the apartment last night was after her stuff alone.

I head back into the kitchen dumbstruck and notice that my hands are trembling. I’m in shock. I head to the sink and blindly pour myself a glass of water from the filter tap. And it’s as I tilt my head to drink that I notice the notepad propped up against the fruit bowl. On a fresh blank page, in handwriting I do not recognize, a message:

BE VERY CAREFUL WHAT YOU DO NEXT



I splutter out half a mouthful of water and then cough the rest up into the kitchen sink as I fight to get my breath back, grabbing a kitchen towel to mop myself down.

I carefully pick up the note. It’s written in thick black Sharpie pen on the notepad I was using last night. I turn the pages back and, just as I suspected, all of the notes from last night are gone. Whoever did this had enough time to get everything they needed and to write this without anyone even noticing. They could have done anything.

Jesus Christ.

I pull myself up onto a counter stool, my mind racing.

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.