Her One Mistake(36)

I pushed my phone away. I’d tried to ignore what was troubling me—the fear that new group chats had been set up without me, that my friends wanted to discuss things that didn’t involve me. But after what Molly had said, I started to believe it was happening.

Since the journalist had pointed out I’d been on Facebook when Alice went missing, I hadn’t been able to look at my account and even deleted the app from my phone. Somehow I’d convinced myself that even just logging on would create a trigger for my activity to be monitored. As if someone was waiting for me so they could say, “Hah, see. Here she is again. She can’t keep off it.” I’d passed my theory by Audrey, who’d told me it was ridiculous, but still I hadn’t chanced it.

Once the children were in bed that night, I knew I couldn’t hold out any longer. I needed to face whatever was being said. I needed to know. I poured a large glass of wine, which I took up to bed, and, taking a deep breath, I opened my Facebook page.

My pulse raced as I scrolled through posts about upcoming holidays and friends’ high-achieving children, furiously searching—for what, I didn’t know. A post that stated what a dreadful mother I was? A high number of likes and shocked-faced emojis attached to it?

The more I looked, the more my heart fell into an easier rhythm. I found nothing of the sort, but then I came across a Help Find Alice page that someone had started, asking others to share and post if they had any news.

It had been set up by one of the mums I barely knew, though at some point we’d become Facebook friends. I stared at the profile picture of her and her two girls. If I didn’t know her, then Harriet wouldn’t either, which made me wonder why she was pioneering this campaign. If anyone was going to do it, it should have been me.

I skimmed over the comments that others had left, but there were so many I couldn’t read them all. Most were messages of support and concern. Warnings to others not to let their children out of their sight when there was a monster loose on our streets. Prayers that had been copied and posted attached with personal messages of hope that Alice was found soon. Some chose to share their opinions on what had happened. Many thought it was most likely the same man who’d taken Mason.

My name was mentioned a couple of times. People I didn’t know relayed how sorry they felt for me.

“Just goes to show you can’t take your eyes off your children for one minute,” they said.

“You shouldn’t trust anyone, not even at a school fair.”

And, “Don’t know if it’s worse to lose your own child or someone else’s.”

I clumsily placed my glass of wine on my bedside table, almost knocking it over. I wanted to comment too. I had no idea what I’d say, but I wanted to let them know I was there, reading their thoughts, breathing, living this hell they were talking about.

I closed my eyes, leaning back against the headboard, tears trickling out from beneath my lids. I could read between the lines. They were careful with their words, but the sentiment was obvious: I was careless and I’d lost someone else’s daughter.

I know that’s what they meant because it was what I thought about myself.

I should have stopped looking then and put my phone away, happy that I hadn’t found anything vitriolic, but instead I sat upright and tapped Alice’s name into the Google search bar. It was with a strange determination to punish myself that I knew I wouldn’t give up until the damage was done, and it didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

I first found my name in a comments section of the Dorset Eye website beneath an article written by Josh Gates, the journalist from the appeal. His vindictive piece had attracted the attention of locals. Names I didn’t know, some anonymous, all thrilled at the chance to let rip and confirm I must be an awful mother.

I should never have been allowed to look after someone else’s child, apparently. Mine should be taken away from me because quite obviously they weren’t safe. If I’d lost their child they wouldn’t be able to help themselves, one said. What he would do, he didn’t explicitly say, but the threat was clear.

I balled my fist into my mouth, gulping large breaths of air that I couldn’t swallow down. These were people who lived near me. They came from Dorset, maybe they were even from my village, and they hated me. Every one of them hated me.

I slid down under my duvet, pulling it over my head. Screwing my eyes tightly shut, I sobbed and screamed under the covers until I must have fallen asleep.

? ? ?

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I bundled the children into the car for school, hiding my red, raw, swollen eyes behind sunglasses. After leaving Jack at the school gate and taking Molly to her classroom, I was walking back across the playground with Evie when Gail called out to stop me. “Hi, I’m glad I’ve caught you,” she said breathlessly as she struggled to catch up.

“Hi, Gail, how are you?”

She flicked a long, sleek black ponytail over her shoulder, pushing her own dark glasses on top of her head. After last night I was glad to have Gail seek me out. I even felt guilty for the way I sometimes moaned about her. Gail wasn’t so bad, even if she could be high maintenance.

“Oh, I’m fine, my lovely, I’m fine.”

“That’s good.”

“I just wanted to catch you because I don’t need you to take Rosie to ballet tonight.”

“Wh— What do you mean?” I stammered. “I always take Rosie to ballet.”