The Daughter Read Free Page B

buzzing noise started in my head, filling in the silence that stretched after her words. I felt giddy, as if I was tipping forward, or the world was tipping back. I held tightly to the edge of the table.
    â€œCan I speak to Nikita?”
    By the tiny space that followed my question, I could measure how far away I had traveled from the gate that had clicked behind me. Shan sounded hesitant.
    â€œShe’s gone back to sleep.”
    Asleep? How could that matter? Nikita was there, safe. We had no idea where our daughter was. A wave of anger was breaking on top of my fear.
    â€œIf Nikita knows anything, anything at all that we don’t, and Naomi might be in danger—­” My throat constricted. Ted took the phone from me.
    â€œHi there, Shania.” There was a pause. “I appreciate how difficult this will be for Nikita . . .” His voice was calm but with an edge of authority. It was exactly how he talked to the junior doctors on his team if they called him for advice about a neurosurgical problem. “If Naomi doesn’t come home soon, we may need to call the police. The more information you give us . . .” Another pause. “Thanks. Yes. See you in a few minutes, then.”
    The boys were sleeping in their rooms. I leaned into the warm, breathing space around their heads. Theo had burrowed under the duvet; his hair, sticking up in a ruff above its edge, was stiff under my lips. Ed’s black fringe was damp; even in sleep his eyebrows swooped down like the wings of a blackbird. As I straightened, I caught my reflection in his mirror. My face, lit by the streetlamp shining through the window, looked as if it belonged to someone much older. My hair was dark and shapeless. I dragged Ed’s brush through it.
    As we drove past the school theater, Ted stopped the car and we got out.
    I don’t know why. I still don’t know why we had to check. Did we really think you would be there, curled up and sleeping on the stage? That we could wake you and that you would smile and stretch, sleepy and stiff, with some explanation about taking too long to change? That we would put our arms around you and take you home?
    The glass doors were locked. They rocked slightly as I pulled at the handles. There was a night-­light in the foyer and the bottles in the bar were shining in neat rows. A torn red and yellow program lay on the floor just inside the door; I could make out red letters spelling “West” and “Story” on different lines and part of a picture of a girl with a blue swirling skirt.
    Ted drove carefully, though I knew he was tired. He had pressed the button on the dashboard that made the back of my seat warm up. It made me sweat, and nausea seemed to rise from the deep leather upholstery. I glanced at him. He was good at this. Good at looking serious, not desperate. When Naomi was in difficulty during her birth, his calmness had stopped me from panicking. He had organized the epidural for the Caesarean section, and he was there when they lifted out her small, bloodied body. I wouldn’t think about that now. I looked out of the window quickly. The streets were shining and empty. A fine rain had started to mist the windows. What had she been wearing? I couldn’t remember. Her raincoat? What about her scarf? I looked up into the roadside trees as if the orange cloth might be there, tangled in the wet black branches.
    At Shania’s house Ted knocked firmly. The night was silent and still around us, but if anyone had been passing in a car, they would have seen a ­couple like any other. We were wearing warm coats and clean shoes as we waited quietly, heads bowed in the rain. We probably looked normal.
    Shania’s face was prepared. She looked calm and serious as she hugged us. It was hot in her house, the gas fire flaming in her tidy living room. Nikita was hunched on the sofa, a cushion held tightly to her, her long legs in