The Sleepover

by Samantha King

“I couldn’t find it, either,” DS Clarke admits.

  “Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  “Perhaps.” She frowns. “Although my niece and nephew are forever posting then deleting stuff. Loading and unloading apps. Joining websites, then changing their minds and unsubscribing. Kids are easily bored, aren’t they? But I’ll check again with the boys.”

  “Have they said anything else?”

  “Nothing from Jason or Samir since we interviewed them this morning. Not that their statements told us much.” She gives me an apologetic smile, as though it’s her fault.

  “Right. Still sticking to their story, then.” I don’t bother to hide my cynicism.

  “Maybe because it’s the truth? Several different officers have talked to them now. They’re not deviating from what they first told DCI Maxwell.”

  I fold my arms. “So they’ve got their script straight.”

  “I think they’re trying, Izzy.” DS Clarke rests a hand on my arm. “They’re shocked. Sometimes it can take a while for things to filter through. We have to have a little patience.”

  “For how long, though?” I stare at the kitchen window. It’s pitch-black outside; all I can see is the reflection of my own anguish.

  “Adrian did tell his mum something this afternoon. Apparently, Nick mentioned having ‘stuff on his mind’ last night. That’s not much. But maybe it’s something? Any ideas?”

  I gaze around the kitchen, trawling for clues, remembering other Saturday evenings here, with Craig pouring wine, Nick and me playing cards at the table. “Stuff on his mind.” I’ve sensed it myself, but I can kick myself a thousand times for not asking Nick what was worrying him. It’s no use now. “Could mean anything. It still doesn’t necessarily mean he ran away,” I add quickly, anxious about the police downgrading their investigation if they think no foul play has occurred; I’m convinced it has.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t. And we’re keeping an open mind. It’s a process, Izzy.” DS Clarke takes out her notebook. “Pulling everything apart. Putting it back together. We’ve looked at Nick’s home life. School. Friends. Next we’ll focus on the local community.”

  “And online. Who was watching those videos? Who might have figured out where Nick was last night? Even if he did run off, for whatever reason, someone could have been waiting for him—snatched him.”

  “I know it’s your worst fear. Look at it this way, though. Nick’s Facebook was live this morning. Mr. Newton saw it. I did a routine social media check after I’d spoken to you and Craig here. I didn’t find anything. And that was early this afternoon. At some point between those times, Nick’s account was deactivated. Given that he disappeared at some point after midnight yesterday, that’s potentially more than twelve hours after he left Beth’s house.”

  “So?” I frown, struggling to see how this is good news.

  “So if Nick was able to deactivate his Facebook account late this morning—well, to put it bluntly, that’s the strongest indication we’ve had yet that he’s alive. Yes? Hold on to that. Nick’s missing. But he’s not gone.”

  “Not gone. But not necessarily safe.”

  “We’re not giving up, Izzy. I promise. But I appreciate it’s going to be a long night. Try to get some sleep. Or at least rest. And don’t forget to eat something.” The detective smiles as she stands up from the table, carrying my untouched toast over to the counter. “I’ll see you in the morning. Call me at any time, though. You’re not in this alone, OK?”

  “Thank you,” I say, even though that’s exactly how I feel.

  * * *

  DS Clarke was right: there is no way I can sleep, not while Nick is still out there, and I feel another flash of anger as I think of the other three boys tucked up safely in their beds. Walking slowly upstairs after I’ve seen the detective out, my feet carry me almost of their own volition toward Nick’s room.

  The silence hurts, even though Nick never makes much noise. He listens to music on his laptop through headphones, and watches Netflix the same way, the old portable television I gave him collecting dust on a shelf. TV is old school, Mum.

  He has a radio, though. It used to be Alex’s, and as I turn it on I get butterflies hearing his favorite classical music pour out of the speaker. Feeling unaccountably disloyal to Craig, I wish Alex was here now, giving me one of the crooked smiles so like his son’s, telling me everything will be OK, babe, as he always did. Only it wasn’t, it isn’t, and if Nick doesn’t come home, it never will be again.

  “Come on, Izzy. Stay positive,” I mutter, finally forcing myself to move. I leave the door open on my way out, wanting Nick’s presence, so strong in his room, to unfurl through the house. “I’ll leave the light on for you, darling,” I say softly, flicking the switch.

  The only reply is the sound of an engine revving violently. “What the heck?” Hurrying to my study at the front of the house, I stare anxiously out of the window. It’s just a car doing a U-turn, but fearful and on edge as I am, any sudden sound startles me, and I remain transfixed, watching the tail lights of the Range Rover until they’re a red blur in the distance.

  I promised DS Clarke I would try to relax, but I can’t—and I can’t stand the thought of lying in my bed alone all night. Sitting down at my desk, I fold my arms and let my head sink down onto them. Maybe I could just rest here for a while . . .

  Loneliness steals around me. I wonder if Nick has been lonely, too, and if that explains why he searched online for something, someone, to fill a void I didn’t even know he felt. He’s had so few friends in real life, it’s hardly surprising if he struggled to recognize the threat from virtual ones . . . if by innocently reaching out to someone, he fell smack bang into their trap.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Despite my restlessness, I must have nodded off, because when my phone rings I almost fall off the chair scrabbling for it. “Nick?”

  The call disconnects. I check the number; it’s withheld. I listen for any messages, hope lodged breathlessly in my chest. There aren’t any, and frustration crashes through me, even as I tell myself I’m grasping at straws, kidding myself it might have been Nick—that he might indeed have simply run away and now feels too scared to come home, worrying that he’ll get told off. I have no way of knowing if that’s the case, or if the Facebook photos hold the clue to a far darker scenario.

  Irritably, I log on to my computer, wondering if the other boys have remained active on social media. I run a search on Samir’s name first, finding nothing. Next I try Adrian, but he appears to have heeded his teacher’s advice after all: I’m clearly not on the authorized list of “friends” able to view his content. Beth must be, but when I type in her name, too many “BETH ATKINS” profiles appear for me to know at a glance which is hers.

  On impulse, I type in “KATIE BAXTER.” She hasn’t phoned to see how I am, which both saddens and angers me. I pick out her profile immediately: Craig took the photo at a barbecue in our backyard two summers ago. Cuddled up to Nathan, Katie is playfully ruffling her husband’s spiky blond hair. She’s pouting; he’s smiling. “A picture paints a thousand lies,” I mumble, remembering sparks flying between them that afternoon.

  I click on more photos, and the more I look, the more I realize that Sean was right about people reinventing themselves on social media, deceiving not just others but perhaps themselves, too. The loved-up images of my former best friend and her husband bear no resemblance at all to my memories of the last time I saw them together . . .

  * * *

  “Merlot. My favorite. Thanks, Mr. B.” Katie stood on tiptoes to kiss Craig’s cheek, then hooked her arm through his, drawing him along the paneled hallway into her kitchen.

  “Shall I do the honors?”

  “Please. Help yourself. You know where everything is.”

  Katie reached into a cupboard for wineglasses, while Craig rifled in a drawer for the bottle opener. Nathan stood watching them for a moment, before turning to hold out a hand to me. I glanced around t
he hall in confusion, until I realized he was offering to take my coat.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I handed it over, watching him hang it on one of the antique silver hooks Katie had salvaged from a junkyard and restored.

  Her home was full of such beautiful touches; as with her clothes, everything was designed to make a statement. It would have been easy to feel dowdy in comparison to my more glamorous friend, but my usual choice of jeans and sweater was a practical one: I was too busy rushing Nick between dance classes to bother with anything fussier, and I was nowhere near as bothered about appearances as Katie. Elegant, I called her; vain, she always acknowledged with her wicked laugh.

  “Shall I sit here?” I hovered at the end of the beautifully set dinner table, after trailing behind Nathan through the neutral drawing room into a more formal dining area beyond. Usually I would make myself at home, but Nathan’s prickly presence made me feel awkward. It always did, and I was pretty sure he only tolerated me for Katie’s sake. He certainly never made any secret of his dislike of Craig.

  “Help yourself. You know where everything is,” he parroted drily.

  The awkwardness continued throughout dinner. I escaped upstairs a few times to look in on Nick and Jason, playing Xbox in the den. Partly I wanted to make sure Jason wasn’t bossing Nick around again: I could hear loud yells at regular intervals, but every time I went up there, the two boys were sitting quietly, as though nothing untoward was going on.

  I wasn’t entirely convinced by Jason’s butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. Each time I checked, Nick was the one sitting on the floor, while Jason sprawled across a giant leather beanbag, hogging the remote control. Nick insisted he was fine, but still I felt the need to pop upstairs a couple more times—admittedly as much because it gave me a breather from the tense atmosphere around the dinner table.

  “Craig’s offered to show Jason round his office over half-term,” Katie announced as I returned downstairs for the last time to see her carrying in the dessert: a spectacular croquembouche. She plucked a profiterole from the glossy tower, offering it to Craig. “You get first dibs, Mr. B. For bringing the wine.”

  Nathan’s hooded gaze scythed between them. “Jase isn’t interested in being a pen pusher. He’s got a bit more spirit about him than that.”

  “Still, it’s a day out for him. And it would help me,” Katie said. “You’ll be away. As usual. I’ve got to work. It’s really kind of you, Craig.”

  For a moment, she rested a hand lightly on his arm. Craig patted it, and Nathan’s thick fingers pinched the stem of his wineglass so hard I found myself waiting for it to snap.

  * * *

  No one would be able to guess any of this from the photos I can’t stop myself scrolling through—just as I’m sure that whatever pictures Nick posted online won’t tell the whole story about the sleepover. The trouble is, with the boys still saying nothing, and the police investigation so far yielding no leads, only Nick knows the real truth about last night.

  Sighing, I do what he always does when he has a homework query I can’t answer: I google it. Where is my son? Has he run away or has someone taken him? Has he been bullied? Or groomed? Was he unhappy? Is it my fault? My head is bursting with questions; frantically, I purge them all into the search engine. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I just need to put everything out there.

  Almost of their own accord, my fingers type Nick’s name—then, on impulse, I type in all the boys’ names, my hands freezing on the keyboard as “JASON BAXTER” leaps out at me, appearing over and over next to a website that makes me feel queasy with shock.

  “Dare or Die. What on earth?” I feel sicker still as I read the copy urging followers to conquer their fears by acting them out. I check the number of “likes”: hundreds. I skim the comments: Nick’s name isn’t among them, but then most are clearly made-up avatars.

  Clicking on a link attached by Deathstar, I’m taken to a video that buffers and loads. My mouth drops open as I watch a boy about the same age as Nick hanging over a railway bridge, clinging on by his white-knuckled fingers as a train approaches. Before he vanishes into clouds of smoke, I stare into his wide, dark eyes. He looks terrified, yet almost jubilant. Fear but undeniable excitement, even bravado, is etched on his round-cheeked face.

  I can’t bear to see what happens next, and I close the clip—only the next one I load is no better. My heart is in my mouth as I watch a slightly older girl, dressed in school uniform, clambering over a balcony a dozen stories up on a high-rise apartment building. Holding on with one hand, her phone is clutched in the other as she leans backward to wave exuberantly at a group of teenagers jumping up and down countless feet below.

  “Death isn’t cool,” I tell her pointlessly. “It’s forever.”

  I shake my head in disbelief as I keep scrolling through dozens of other shocking stunts and extreme selfies; I hunt again for Nick’s name, desperately hoping I won’t find it. Gradually, it begins to register that the most recent posts all have a horror theme: kids dressed as vampires, leaping between rooftops; zombie-costumed teens dodging traffic. Always with a phone capturing their starring moment—a heartbeat away from it being their dying one.

  A tingle runs down my arms. Yesterday was Friday the thirteenth. Did Jason, inspired by the spooky occasion, challenge Nick to do something crazy to post on this website? Did Nick feel pressured into agreeing, only it went wrong and the boys are too scared to say? Beth said they never left the house—but Nick clearly did. If she didn’t hear him, what else did she miss? The boys seem bound to a silence not even trained police officers have managed to crack. But maybe I can persuade them to break it. I at least have to try . . .

  Reaching for my tote bag, I check inside for my car keys, almost dropping them as I hear a loud scraping noise outside, followed by a clatter. Footsteps? Hurrying to the window, I peer down at the road for the second time. It’s still empty, and there are no houses opposite—only Osterley Park beyond a high wall. Its gates are locked at night, and the vast estate is a black void, but my skin crawls with a sudden sensation of being watched.

  Ducking down, I tell myself I’m just getting freaked out by the voyeurism of snooping through other people’s photos. “Come on, Izzy. Pull yourself together.” I grab my coat and head downstairs, allowing myself only a quick check around as I leave the house. I do a double take when I notice a broken plant pot under the living room window, as if someone has cracked the brittle terra-cotta by standing on it—to look into my house?

  Peering suspiciously at the bushes dividing my yard from Mr. Thompson’s next door, a scream fills my throat when a shadow springs out from them. “Oh, Marzipan. You scared me. Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

  I quickly reopen the front door and wait impatiently for her to slink through the gap, before turning back to survey the frozen street. The wind picks up a drift of voices, and I strain to listen, my heart beating faster as I remember the anonymous phone call just half an hour ago, wondering again if it was Nick—if the noises I heard might even have been him . . .

  “Nick? Nick, if you’re there, it’s OK! Please, just come inside.” I skid down the short driveway to the street, looking frantically up and down the sidewalks. The shadows yield no sign of him, and my hopes plummet as a couple of older teenage boys saunter past, laughing, on the other side of the road. I stand and watch them, feeling powerless and angry.

  What if the police don’t find Nick? What if he doesn’t want to be found? The cloak of invisibility he seems to have been drawing around himself for weeks has finally worked. I should have noticed his withdrawal sooner, questioned him harder—just as DCI Maxwell should have the boys. He stopped me from questioning them, too, I think bitterly.

  But he’s not here now . . . Neither is Alex. Nor Craig. I remember my mum’s tipsy parting words of advice: Look after yourself, Isobel Blake, because no one else will do it for you. She was wrong about so many things, but maybe she was right about that. I can’t sit back and wait for others to solve my prob
lems; I have to be the one to do it. Fired up with determination now to find out the truth for myself, I climb into my car, reverse out onto the road, and set off for Katie’s house.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Jase told the police everything he knows. Today’s been stressful enough for him. He’s barely left his room. He needs sleep,” Katie whispers, ushering me into her darkened kitchen.

  All the house lights were off when I arrived. I had to ring the bell twice and knock five times before she opened the door, and her hissed urgency for me to keep my voice down made me want to shout in her face: Where is your son, and what the hell did he do to mine?

  “Stressful for Jason? You’ve got to be kidding me.” I stare at her back in disbelief as she strides ahead of me. “My son’s missing, but yours is the one who’s upset. He—”

  “Shh. He’ll hear you.” Katie quickly shuts the kitchen door, then opens it a crack, listening. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” she adds quietly, “but he’s gutted.”

  “Well, no one likes having to justify their actions.” I can’t bite back the dig about how she judged me for mine a year ago. She ignores it, pushing past me to get to the fridge, and I glance curiously around the vast kitchen-diner, lit only by an enormous tropical fish tank and the glow of garden lights through bifold doors. I haven’t been here for so long, but everything looks the same—except a lot messier than it used to be, I’m surprised to notice.

  “Jason hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m sick of everyone getting the wrong idea about him. Sure, he’s boisterous. But Nathan fills his head with too many tough-guy army stories. You know that. Jase wants to impress him, that’s all.” She yanks the fridge open; the contents on the door rattle precariously. “All boys show off to their dads.”

  I’m hurt by her tactlessness, but I’ve come here for answers, not a fight. It’s awkward enough seeing her again after all this time, so I don’t point out that Nick never had the chance to impress his dad. I shouldn’t have to say it, anyway, not to Katie; she knows my history with Alex. But as she takes out an almost empty bottle of white wine, draining the dregs into a glass, I suspect it’s not her first of the evening and guess that explains her insensitivity.