I’m aware of someone else in the room. Phoebe is sitting on the office chair with her legs crossed, watching me intently.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“You must be Phoebe.”
“How do you know my name?”
I tap the end of my nose.
“Are you a detective?” she asks.
“No.”
“Are you looking for Piper?”
“I am.”
“If you find her, will I still be invisible?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you think Mum will see me then?”
“You think you’re invisible?”
“I’m not like Piper. She’s the one people talk about. She’s the one they want to see—not me or Ben or Jessica. We’re invisible.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Your mother loves you.”
Phoebe rocks forward and puts her feet on the floor. From downstairs, I can hear her brother Ben calling her.
“Goodbye,” she says. “I’m glad you can see me.”
Sarah Hadley is not in the house. I find her outside in the garden hitting golf balls into a practice net. Pieces of ice fly off the mesh every time a ball smacks into the hanging curtain. I can imagine her in the summer at her country club, her long tanned legs in tailored shorts.
She drives a ball, wrapping the club around her back and holding the pose. Her shirt rides up over her flat stomach.
“Nice swing.”
“I used to play on the county team.”
At first glance her complexion had looked golden and almost unblemished but now I notice the skin around her eyes has been tightened. Repairs have been done. She takes a swig of something from a glass. Alcohol has glazed her eyes but hasn’t numbed anything else.
“Maybe you should ease up on that,” I tell her.
“Bit late now. I was two years sober until this morning.”
“I could give you someone to call?”
“Therapy? Tried that too. None of it lasts.”
“Where is your husband with this?”
“He makes excuses for me. He’s not one to complain.”
She swings at another ball and this one shanks to the right. “You know the saddest thing about all this?”
“What’s that?”
“Phoebe doesn’t know how to ride a pushbike because we haven’t taught her. She’s never taken the school bus or walked to the shops by herself. I’m scared that if I let her out of my sight she might not come back.”
“That’s understandable,” I say, remembering my conversation with Phoebe.
“It’s affecting her, you know. Little by little, I see her regressing. She was always a strong-willed little madam, but now I’ve made her helpless. She has nightmares, wakes up crying and shouting. Dale has to calm her down.”
“Not you?”
“She doesn’t settle so easily for me. You should see her bedroom. She kept every single one of the soft toys that people sent. The attic is bursting with them. Dale wanted to donate them to charity, but Phoebe wouldn’t let him.”
Sarah glances over her shoulder at the house, proud of her family but unable to explain the mix of feelings that marriage has brought her. The Christmas tree is visible through the drawing room window.
“We still hang Piper’s stocking every year. And we have a cake on her birthday, with just the right number of candles. We’ve been going through the motions, but now it seems more real… more real than yesterday.”
She tees up another ball, checks her grip, makes a practice swing.
“I’ve grown used to being stared at. People whisper behind my back—they think I’m a publicity-seeker. Phoebe came home from school one day and said a boy had told her that Piper was dead and that I should shut up and stop talking about her.
“That’s what people think. They think our little girl was murdered or ran away because we were awful parents. They think I waste my time, banging on pointlessly… putting up posters, not letting them forget. Do you know why I’ve never given up?”
“No.”
“I talked to a medium… a psychic. She told me that Piper and Natasha were still alive. She said they were together and were trying to get home. She said, “They are beneath the earth, but not a part of it. Breathing in the darkness.”
“How did you meet this medium?”
“Vic McBain was going out with her.”
“Natasha’s uncle?”
Sarah nods and something feverish passes across her face. She doesn’t strike me as being the sort to hang her hopes on the cold reading capabilities of a psychic, but three years is a long time without news and desperation is a cold cup of coffee.
“What else did this medium say?”