Specifically, there was a code in the letter, or a string of codes, shakily scrawled amongst the self-indulgent ramblings of the man who wrote to her every year, on her birthday. The codes burned into her waking vision, glowing, beckoning, a long sequence of numbers and symbols. She saw them everywhere as she walked: in the trees, in the sky, on the ground, sprouting amongst the ferns like weeds, buzzing around her head like mosquitos.

The others letters she had from the same sender had similar codes in them. She knew what they were. They were directions. And she knew what the letters were. They were admissions of guilt.

Confessions.

I did something terrible, they said.

And that, after all, was why she was here. It didn't matter if the author had a poor grasp of vocabulary, spelling, and grammar. It didn't matter if he was arrogant, and violent, and self-obsessed. It didn't even matter that he was cruel, and had been cruel for so many years, and that she was the primary focus of that cruelty throughout her life.

It only mattered that he had answers.

It only mattered that he knew where Bobby was.

It only mattered that she put an end to it all.

Laura kept on walking.

2.

The first letter arrived on Laura’s fourteenth birthday, exactly one year and a day after Bobby disappeared.

She had grown up very quickly in that year. Physically, yes, but in other ways too, more significant ways. By then, she had lost all hope that they would find Bobby alive. Coming to terms with this had a profound effect on the child that she had been, and she sped past the tumultuous awkwardness of puberty like a flat stone flung across the sea. She became, almost overnight, a quiet and serious young woman with a solid grip on the reality of her situation. Her best friend had gone, and he was never coming back. The ties that bind, she realised, did not always bind tight enough. He had slipped from her grasp. And in doing so, he had taught her a lesson, a harsh and immutable truth: that nothing is permanent. Everything can change. A life can alter beyond recognition in the time it takes to simply let go of someone’s hand.

His hand in hers was the last thing she remembered about Bobby. She still felt the ghost of his fingers on hers, every day. Hot, smooth, and awkward. Fumbling, stroking her skin. They were clumsy with each other, as teenagers are. She was thirteen, he was fifteen. He had kissed her the day before, on her birthday, lightly on the lips. And now they were ‘going steady’, as kids said in those days. And going steady meant holding hands.

They had a habit of walking to the bus stop together, and that day, which was also her birthday, had been no different. In matching school uniforms, they dawdled so they could spend more time with each other before the bus arrived. She remembered blushing, stammering as she spoke, unsure of what it was that they were supposed to say to each other now they were boyfriend and girlfriend. They had known each other for what felt like forever- their parents were old, close friends and neighbours- but this felt like new territory, and she was woefully ill-equipped to navigate it. She felt a certain hesitance from Bobby, too, as if he were also unsure as to what the rules were, now that they had begun to explore each other in different ways.