‘Fuck,’ I say, choking on tears. Instinctively, I raise a hand to my stomach as if to cover a tiny set of ears, but of course, there’s nothing there.
My head bows. Alexa had so much hope the day we met. So much presence. Her kindness and genuine understanding have stayed with me for almost a year. Helped me. Told me that no matter how dark my thoughts got, I had to have hope.
Hope, the thing that, if I listen to Katherine, Alexa had lost.
That idea is almost too awful for me to bear.
Sniffing back tears, I lift my head to look at the photo of the Clarkes on their wedding day. My vision blurs as the image transforms into one of me and Kamal on ours. We don’t look anything like Alexa and Otis, but we carried ourselves in the same way. We were excited for the future, too, back before we knew the trajectory it would follow.
But grief changes you. It warps you, turning you into someone you never thought you would become. I know that better thanmost, but I don’t want that for Alexa. I want her to be the woman I met that day at the hospital. A stranger who handed me a tissue and told me that life would find a way to become good again.
Suddenly, the image of Alexa and Otis captured in confetti-covered bliss takes on a new significance.
Maybe I can help. While I might not know Alexa Clarke, I know her story. I know she feels like she has no place in this world. I know that disappearing probably feels like the most appealing thing to do right now, even if it breaks the hearts of those who love her.
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘I’m going to help you.’
That all starts with finding her.
Luckily, there’s enough information visible on Otis’s Facebook account to provide a window into his world. I learn that he was born in London and has two brothers, Nathaniel and Leo. He owns a business called Archi-Tech, and a quick Google search informs me that Archi-Tech employs almost fifty people and logs annual profits in the millions.
Then I spot something that makes my heart leap. Alexa’s Facebook account is linked to Otis’s via his relationship status, although her name comes up as Alexa Larson.
Her maiden name, perhaps?I click the link. When Alexa’s profile loads, the ache in my chest grows.
Her profile picture is one of her and Otis, but an older one. The photo looks like it was snapped at an informal outdoor event, maybe a barbecue or a garden party. They’re sitting on striped folding chairs, Otis’s hand resting on Alexa’s knee as she laughs at something.
A lump forms in my throat.Social media is curated. We only share the good bits, I remind myself, but my mind dismisses that thought.I want the photo to be real. I want the people in it to be as happy and as in love as they seem. I want Alexa to come home and for everything to be okay.
Before emotion gets the better of me, I skip to Alexa’s ‘About Me’ section.
I learn that she was born in Denmark. She left her home country to travel, holding jobs in New York and Sydney before coming to England. Her location is still set to London, where she worked as a lifestyle journalist and editor before going freelance a few years ago.
Heading back to Google, I search the name ‘Alexa Larson’. And just like that, Alexa’s journalistic career is at my fingertips.
For the next few hours, I read everything I can find that has Alexa’s name attached to it. I soak in each word as if the truth about where she is can be found in an article from four years ago. The more I read, the more something strikes me: the tone of Alexa’s writing is upbeat. So much so that after reading her work, I feel like I could write an entire novel in the few hours I have left of the day. The fact that the woman who could inspire such determination in me is the same person checking herself into a B&B streets away from her home because she was so pained distresses me.
When I’ve exhausted Alexa’s articles, I rake through information about Archi-Tech more thoroughly than someone would research the company if they were applying for a job there. Despite the rumours, I find no evidence to suggest that Otis runs his business with anything other than integrity.
That doesn’t mean it’s the truth, though, my brain warns.
The room darkens as I research Alexa and Otis. My eyes burn from hours of screentime, but I keep going, desperate to find something, anything, that might give me more insight about Alexa’s stateof mind. The information online is outdated and hidden behind social media gloss, but at least it helps bring the Clarkes to life.
Time must slip away from me because before I know it, Kamal calls me from downstairs.
‘Janine?’
Glancing at the time, my heart plummets when I see it’s almost seven-thirty. Snapping my laptop shut, I dash for the stairs, but halfway down them I freeze.
Kamal stands in the hallway, stretching his stiff neck. He hasn’t noticed me yet, so for the first time in a long time, I see my husband as he is when he’s not holding everything together. His thick hair looks dishevelled, his beard in dire need of a trim. There’s a heaviness to him that sets my nerves on edge, but when he senses my presence, joy lights his face.
‘Stressful day?’ I ask before Kamal glosses over his tiredness completely.
‘Aren’t they all?’
As Kamal shrugs his coat from his shoulders, a crinkling sound rings out, making me take note of the colourful poppies in his hand.
‘Before you say anything, they’re only from the village store,’ he says. ‘I know you say flowers are a waste of money, but I never know if that’s a masterstroke of reverse psychology.’