THE TROUBLE WITH PAPER PLANES(39)

We stopped walking and faced each other. In the dusky twilight, I tried to read her expression, to figure out if I was making any sense at all but she just stared up at me with those beautiful chameleon eyes.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t make a habit of this. This is… special. You’re special. It feels right, being here with you.”

I brushed a stray wisp of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear as I’d seen her do a handful of times tonight. She reached up to take my hand in hers, holding it, as if me touching her like that was making it difficult for her to think clearly.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing,” she said. “So this is probably gonna sound stupid, or crazy or whatever, but I felt something when we first met. I don’t know what it is, or how to describe it. I just… did.”

My heart nearly exploded with relief. It wasn’t just me. She felt it too. I wasn’t in this alone.

“It’s not stupid,” I said, squeezing her hand gently. “Or crazy. I felt it too.”

Her eyes locked onto mine and I found it impossible to look away.

“Is it… normal?” she asked.

Emily’s words came back to me. Normal is over-rated. You need to aim higher.

“Not for me.”

“Not for me, either.”

A shiver ran through me as I wrapped one arm around her, keeping hold of her other hand in mine. Having her this close to me sent tremors of anticipation rolling through me. I wanted to kiss her so badly my lips were tingling, but she held off, staring up at me.

“What?” I asked gently, running my thumb over the side of her hand, held up between us as though anchoring us to each other.

“Just wait a moment,” she murmured. “I want to remember this.”

I waited for precisely three beats of my racing heart, then I leaned in and kissed her. She closed her eyes as I brought my hand under her chin and tilted it up towards me. For the moment it took for our lips to meet, a thousand thoughts raced through my head.

Her lips were soft, so beautifully tender, and as soon as they touched mine, goose-bumps rose up all over my body. It felt as if my whole being was disappearing, disintegrating into a gathering of cells, about to float off into the atmosphere. The kiss seemed to last forever, and I was vaguely aware that I had let go of her hand and curled both my arms around her body, pulling her closer still.

It wasn’t enough. I simultaneously wanted her to be part of me, and yet I felt like she already was. I was stricken with an extreme sense of vertigo, as if I were falling and she was holding me up.

The prospect scared the shit out of me.





I PULLED UP OUTSIDE the police station with Henry, the familiar heaviness in my chest settling in as if it had never left. Much like the birthday tradition I put myself through for Bridget’s sake, I put myself through Tuesday’s at the police station for Henry. I’d been bringing him here every Tuesday since Emily disappeared. It was a ritual now, but one I still dreaded. I think it was the inevitability of it that I hated.


We made our way inside the small station building. It was busy, if the activity beyond the reception area was anything to go by. Phones rang intermittently at the desks beyond the glass, hollow and distant. Police officers crossed the room, files in hand.

Henry stood up, making his way over to the noticeboard on the opposite side of the small waiting room. Home-made fliers for lost dogs, community service group details and fuzzy security camera photos of shoplifters littered the board. Sitting among them all, half-buried behind layers of notices, was the flyer with Emily’s photograph on it. I watched him carefully unpin it from the back and move it to the front, before coming back over to sit down beside me again. A silent show of dogged persistence.

I stared at the photo. I’d seen it so often now, it hardly looked like her, certainly not the Emily I remembered. My brain had disconnected the photo from the person. Now, it was a photo of a missing girl, one who had been the subject of a country-wide search. One of the over 350 missing persons in New Zealand who had not yet been found. It was an elite club, and a dubious honour.

Senior Sergeant John Latimer was no doubt expecting us. We didn’t have to wait long before being ushered through the station and into his office. I had a lot of respect for Latimer. He was a big man, in both stature and personality. In his fifties, with a handlebar moustache and a grip that could probably bring a man to his knees. I didn’t doubt that he had been a firm but fair cop when he was on the street. I’d seen the way the younger officers behaved around him, with quiet reverence, respect and admiration.