Before the policewoman has even returned, I am gone.

25.

EMMA

Zeb’s Skype profile picture was frozen on the screen, mocking her with its stillness as the “calling Zeb” icon danced in the center. Then, like a miracle, the static image vanished and was replaced by a moving, breathing Zeb. His hair was longer, and his face seemed thin—though his shoulders looked more muscular. There was a window behind him with a view onto a dusty yard. It was as if he’d been cut-and-pasted onto an alien backdrop.

She blinked back tears, wishing she could shed her unease. This was her son. Her Zeb.

“Hello, stranger!”

“Hey, Mum.” It didn’t help that his voice was out of sync with the movement of his mouth, tilting their conversation off balance.

“How are you, Zebbie?”

“I’m . . . good.”

“Yeah?” Emma leaned forward, eager for reassurance. She tried to keep her eyes on him rather than the background, but it was hard not to wonder who else was around. “Really?”

“Yes, Mum, really.”

“Well, that’s great.” There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but each seemed fraught with possible conflict.

“How ’bout you?” He surprised her by reciprocating. “You said there was something urgent?”

Emma wondered where to begin. Her eyes scoured his face, looking for other changes, her breath becoming choppy as she felt the distance between them, the barrier of the screen, the weak signal.

Suddenly she noticed a dark pink mark on Zeb’s hand. She pointed, frowning: “Hey, what’s that?”

“This?” He lifted his hand and she saw it properly: a wide, deep cut across his palm.

“How did you get that?”

“Cutting open a box.”

“Zeb, it looks bad! Did you go to hospital?”

“Had a couple of stitches.” He dropped his hand. “Looks worse than it is.”

She knew it was just a cut but it seemed to represent all her fears. You shouldn’t be there. You should be with me.

As she tried to stop staring at his hand, she saw movement behind him. Someone had appeared in the yard: A man with long brown hair, wearing navy overalls, was dragging a bag of gravel toward a shed. Emma’s heart turned over. Robin. Zeb must have noticed the slip in her attention because he twisted around and the two men waved at each other. Emma composed herself, so that when he turned back she could be rational and calm.

It was difficult, though. Her mouth was so dry.

“Zeb.” She focused on him, not the yard. “You know Freya who lives above us?”

Zeb’s attention swung back. “The blonde girl?”

“Yes.” She glanced toward her own window. The two rows of trees were head-banging in the wind, the posters of Freya clinging on tight. “Have you . . . seen anything about her online?”

“I haven’t been on much. The connection’s crap here. Why, what about her?”

“She . . . she’s gone missing.”