See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist.

by Janelle Harris

  Evening falls outside my window, slowly sweeping away the brightness of daylight. There’s a light rain out there, and it’s getting dark earlier than usual, even for November. I stand up and draw the curtains. I spin around and take a moment to savour the darkness and silence. But my phone begins buzzing, and I remember what I’m supposed to be doing. I remember my plan. I read the most recent text.

  Hi, Amber.

  Just checking in, hun.

  Are you okay?

  Hun? I roll my eyes and practically gag on the stupid terms of endearment women use for each other. I barely know this girl. Giselle something-or-other. Even seeing her name appear before her text, I struggle to put a face to the name. But I know her nosy streak will work to my advantage. I flick on the lamp on the low, corner table next to me and sit on the floor just inside the window. I try to get comfortable, knowing I could be here for a while if all goes according to plan. Another message follows.

  Sweetie. Seriously.

  I’m starting to worry.

  Just let me know you got home okay?

  I grin so brightly I can feel the muscles beside my ears twitch. Giselle saw me leave the office with David. She knew he was driving me home. Does she really think something might have happened along the way? Without me even saying a word, she already doubts his character. Oh, this is too easy.

  I close my eyes and breathe out heavily through my open mouth. My reply is paramount. I need to steer this in the right direction, but I have to be subtle. Giselle isn’t the brightest bulb, but when it comes to gossip, I get the impression she’s goddamn Einstein at sniffing out bullshit.

  Hey.

  Thanks for your messages.

  I’m okay … I think.

  I hit send and realise I’m twitching nervously as I wait for her reply. Seconds tick by slowly, turning to minutes. She doesn’t reply. Shit. Was I too subtle? I can’t send another message. It’ll look like I’m trying too hard. I stand up and kick the corner table, sending the lamp crashing to the ground. I wish someone less dim was prying into my life. Giselle is no use. I need an alternative.

  I remember the Facebook friend request earlier. That’ll do nicely. I pick up the lamp, am relieved the bulb didn’t crack, and place it back on the table. No harm done. I scurry to the sideboard under the television and open the top drawer, pulling out my laptop excitedly. I can’t wait to get typing. Giddy bubbles fizz in my stomach, and I wonder why I wasted an afternoon waiting for David to make the first move when I could have been in control all along. I’ll beat myself up about that later; right now, I’m too enthused to think about that.

  I make my way back to the couch, and by the time I sit down, I have my laptop open, turned on, and ready to go. I chew my bottom lip as I try various combinations of emails and passwords to log in to Facebook. None are right. I set the Sun Lee account up in such a hurry earlier I can’t remember what the hell security I used. Frustrated at my own stupidity, I open the spreadsheet I created over the weekend. I scroll through the list of identities, photos, and the corresponding emails and passwords. Each set creating a fake person. I’ve been meticulous in my detail, so I don’t trip myself up. The accounts are nothing more than a name and a basic profile picture, usually scenery or something equally non-specific.

  I’m wasting my time because I know the Sun Lee account won’t be on the list. I created him in a fit of blind panic, and I’m paying the price now with no login details. Dammit. I try one last attempt, but when I’m still denied access, I begin to lose my temper. I need to be consistent. I need a single account following me. Just one simple name. Anything more is messy and makes me look paranoid. Paranoid like Emma. I smirk as I remember all the fun I had tormenting her over the weekend, right under her husband’s nose.

  Finally, I remember the login details and access the Sun Lee account. Eu-fucking-reka! I slide my laptop off my knees and rest it down next to me, relieved as the cool air hits my sweaty calves. I pace to the kitchen and fling open the cupboard under the sink. I crouch and pull out air freshener, bleach, and a box of dishwasher tablets and let them fall messily on the tiles. My eyes widen, and I purr loudly as I spy the bottle of vodka nestled behind some washing up liquid and grab it. I don’t bother to waste time searching for a glass. I unscrew the cap and throw it away. Sticking the rim right under my nose, I inhale until the pressure makes my eyes want to pop. My mouth salivates as I begin to imagine the burn of alcohol as it flashes past my tongue. I fumble on the floor with my free hand and find the cap. My shaking fingers create a tedious task as I try to screw the cap back on. Finally, I succeed. I stuff the cuboid glass bottle back into the cupboard, only relaxing when I feel the resistance of the wall back against my force. I pick up all the cleaning agents off the floor and place them back in order of height, tallest first, in front of the bottle of vodka. I’m hiding the vodka from myself. It’s routine.

  I make my way back to the sitting room, stopping every couple of steps to toss my head over my shoulder and eye up the cupboard. I sit in the same lumpy spot on the couch as I did earlier and once again, rest my laptop on my knee. I type Emma’s full name into the Facebook search box, and her profile picture is the first to appear in the dropdown menu below. Her cheesy grin in her profile photo, as she sits cross-legged on a sandy beach somewhere sunny and tranquil, irritates the shit out of me. Her clear skin and green-brown eyes mean she always comes out better in photos than in real life. Just another thing to hate about her, I guess. I imagine David took the photo on their honeymoon. It’s dated six months ago, so that adds up. I can’t access her photo albums because the paranoid freak has everything she possibly can set on private. But I can see her profile pictures. All of them. Past and present. They will have to do.

  Clicking through, I’m disappointed to discover there aren’t many. Emma appears to have only joined Facebook in the last couple of years, and she doesn’t change the image representing her account often. I flick through more of Emma’s boring, smiling poses, but I stop on one, very distinct photo. It’s a generic image that she’s probably downloaded from the internet, but she’s tagged David, and I know why. The picture is somewhat blurry; a pink cushion resting on a cream sofa, but it’s the writing on the cushion that catches my eye. Sometimes a hug says more than words ever could. It’s a corny cliché, but it obviously has some sweet, deeper meaning between the two of them. It’s perfect and exactly what I’m looking for.

  I save the image to my desktop and immediately upload it as Sun Lee’s new profile picture. Emma shared the photo almost two years ago, but it didn’t garner many likes. Most people will have forgotten or never have noticed. But I’m counting on David to remember. I cross my fingers that he’ll recognise the slushy words as soon as he sees them.

  My phone buzzes, and I reluctantly pull my attention away from my laptop to check my messages. Giselle again. Good.

  You only think you’re okay?

  Amber, that doesn’t sound good.

  Did David Lyons upset you?

  He was acting really weird today.

  Giselle doesn’t know it, but her message has just made my day, and we’re about to become very, very good friends. Another follows.

  He didn’t come on to you or something, did he?

  I shuffle on the spot and squeal excitedly. Giselle is suddenly my new favourite person. Lucky girl. I consider hitting the green call icon beside her name, but crying down the phone to her is a bit too nineteen nineties rom-com to be believable. I need to be classy and reserved. If Giselle has to drag the story out of me, it will work to my advantage down the line. I decide to allow my silence to give her time to draw her own conclusions. I’m confident about what the nosy bitch will decide. As predicted, a third text comes through in as many minutes.

  You can tell me.

  You know I won’t tell anyone.

  ‘On the contrary,’ I say out loud as if I’m not alone. ‘I’m relying on you to tell everyone.’

  My fingers punch a reply. I’m so exci
ted; I hope autocorrect can rescue my ramblings and make sense of my letters.

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  I’m too upset.

  I send my cryptic reply and switch off my phone. I know Giselle will be bursting to talk it over. When I’m not available, she’ll presumably try, but fail, to keep the secret. She’ll have to tell someone. Even if she only tells one other person, they may just be enough to get the rumour started.

  The fan on my laptop kicks in loudly, summoning my attention back to the screen. Just in case braindead Giselle doesn’t shoot her mouth off, I decide to back up our last text with some viral evidence.

  Still logged in as Sun Lee, I search for myself on Facebook. Surprisingly, there’s quite a few Amber Hunters, and it takes me a while to find myself. Having deleted the Sun Lee friend request earlier under David’s watchful eye, I can’t simply send myself another. I could make up some bullshit excuse about thinking Sun Lee was one of our Asian clients, but I’ve underestimated David before. He’s not the pushover I suspected, and I know he wouldn’t believe that reasoning. The only alternative is to make my personal account public and visible to everyone. I’d rather not go there, but it’s the only inconspicuous solution. I lean forward and pick my phone up off the low coffee table directly in front of me. I open the Facebook app and casually scroll though my settings. I make the necessary amendments and sit back and relax with a pronounced sigh. My account is now an open, internet scrapbook of photos and comments. Anyone and everyone are free to flick through with the click of a button and spy on everything I share. I feel painfully exposed, like leaving the house naked, but bare and vulnerable is exactly what I’m aiming for online.

  Many people have open Facebook accounts. Bloggers, vloggers and general attention seekers. It’s all about having one thousand followers these days. Amber Hunter is just on trend. People will believe that.

  I rest my phone down on the cushion next to me with the screen facing upwards. My wrists hover over my laptop keyboard, poised and ready to type. Choosing my words is causing my tongue to tingle as I repeatedly flick it over and back across my top teeth. It’s exhilarating being someone else. The freedom to do and say as I please is addictive. My mind wanders to the bottle of vodka under the kitchen sink. I smack my lips together, almost biting my tongue as I remember the taste. It’s been so long. Five years next month. Five whole years since I tasted so much as one drop of alcohol.

  Addiction is my least favourite word. That word has defined me almost all my life. Once an addict, always an addict. I shrug and roll my eyes. Fuck that!

  Sun Lee is only a figment of my imagination, but he’s having a more profound effect on me than drugs or booze. He’s the greatest weapon I possess. Emma Lyons ruined my life. Revenge will taste so much better than a five-year-old bottle of cheap Russian vodka ever could.

  My fingers take on a life of their own, and I smirk as the sublimely rootless words appear on my laptop screen as I type. I’m logged into Facebook as Sun Lee on my laptop, and I’m logged in as Amber Hunter on my phone. This is too much bloody fun.

  YOU CHEAP HUSBAND-STEALING WHORE.

  I’M WATCHING YOU!!!!

  My phone beeps obediently. I laugh out loud as I pick it up and read the slanderous words plastered across my real Facebook page by, what convincingly appears to be, some Asian guy with a profound proverb as his profile picture. It’s fucking perfect. I drop my head back, exhale deeply, and wait for someone to notice that Amber Hunter is a helpless victim of cyber bullying.

  Chapter Seventeen

  EMMA

  Dusk falls, causing obedient street lamps to flicker as I make my way home. Traffic is heavy in the town square, and chaos at the traffic lights erupts as everyone loses patience on their commute home from work. David regularly complains about the backlog of traffic getting through the junction close to our estate. I see what he means, and it makes me smile as I recognise I’m close to home.

  I’m walking quickly. My hips waddle as they try to keep up with my feet. I’ve passed feeling cold. I’m almost numb. My jeans are soaking from the knees down because some idiot in a 4x4 drove through a giant puddle and splashed a small tsunami all over the footpath and me. I can feel the denim start to harden, and I suspect some damp patches are turning to ice. They scrape against my legs like sandpaper. It’s becoming a physical battle with my body to continue propelling myself forward. Part of me just wants to lie down, in this exact spot, and maybe never get up again. But I’m so close to home. When the wide mouth of my estate comes into view, despite being exhausted, I begin to run. Slowly at first, but by the time I hit my cul-de-sac, I’m really sprinting.

  I jump onto the low step at my front door with renewed energy. Clenching my fist, I pound on the green, timber door until it rattles on its hinges. Nothing happens. I bang harder. I pause, bend forward, and suck huge gulps of air in through my open mouth. I scurry off the step and shuffle to one side, eyeing up the hideous, potted plant David’s mother gave us as a Christmas present last year. I’m certain I’m going to throw up, so I decide I’ll aim there. But vomit doesn’t come, and neither does an answer at the door. It takes me until now to realise David’s car is missing from the front drive, and no lights are on inside the house. David’s not home. He’s left me. Oh. My. God.

  I have no key. No phone. And no composure. I make my way back to the front step and sit down. I drop my head between my legs and hope that it will help to ease the palpitations in my chest. It doesn’t. Sudden, loud ringing assaults my ears. Darkness swoops across my eyes as if someone is closing a tiny, black-out shutter over my face and I have no way of opening it again. I know fainting is imminent and impossible to fight off.

  When I open my eyes again, I scream. A hand is gripping my shoulder tightly, shaking me.

  ‘Emma. Emma, wake up! Jesus Christ, you’re freezing. How long have you been out here?’

  I recognise Kim’s voice before my eyes adjust and allow me to take in her face. It takes me a while to notice she’s frantic.

  ‘Eh … eh …’ I stutter, the noise rattling up from somewhere between my stomach and my throat.

  ‘C’mon,’ Kim says softly as she slides her arms under mine as if she’s a mother scooping up a toddler.

  I try to cooperate, but my limbs are floppy, and I make her task almost impossible.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ a male voice suggests.

  Kim steps to one side, and a broad, tall man takes her place.

  ‘Should we take her to the hospital?’ Kim asks.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘But she could have hypothermia or something.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ He crouches, and even though he’s a big guy, he makes it right down to my level so his eyes can meet mine. ‘We just need to get her inside, Kim.’

  He reaches out to me, but I jolt away, and my back stiffens like a startled cat.

  ‘C’mon now, Emma.’ He sighs. ‘You’re really cold. Too cold. Let me help you.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Emma, this is Andy,’ Kim explains. ‘You met him in the club, remember?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good. Now, let him help you.’

  I nod again.

  ‘Okay, Emma,’ Andy says. ‘I’m going to pick you up now, all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  Andy slides one arm under the back of my knees and his other arm wraps around my back. He raises me into his firm arms and holds me against his chest as he stands up. I instinctively nestle against him. His body feels like a furnace against me, and I shamelessly take comfort in his touch.

  Kim brushes past us and jiggles a key in the lock. I’d given her a spare key when David and I went on our honeymoon so she could check in on our place. I’d been meaning to ask her for it back, but I kept forgetting. Thank goodness.

  The front door swings open, and the heat of the house wafts towards me like a warm summer breeze. Kim and Andy waste no time hurrying inside. Kim feverishly drop
s her arm behind her and presses her palm against the door shutting it with a loud bang. I stiffen instinctively, and Andy’s safe arms tighten around me, attempting to silently settle me.

  ‘The bathroom is upstairs, second door on the left,’ Kim says.

  Andy makes his way up the stairs with me securely cradled against his warm chest. Kim trots closely behind us. Reaching the bathroom, Andy uses his foot to push the ajar door wide open. Kim races over to the bath, bends down, and twists on the tap while Andy makes his way towards the loo. Using his foot again, he gently kicks the lid down and lowers me to sit on top.

  ‘The water’s hot, thank God,’ Kim gushes.

  Andy grabs the clean towel hanging over the edge of the bath and wraps it around my shoulders.

  ‘Okay, great,’ he says. ‘Fill it up as fast as you can. Turn on the cold tap too. It’ll speed it up. Lukewarm water is fine to start. She’s so cold that we need to build her temperature back up slowly anyway. Don’t want to shock the shit out of her.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Good idea,’ Kim gasps.

  ‘You’re really cold, Emma,’ Andy explains. ‘It’s not good.’

  I like Andy, I decide. His voice is soft, and he sounds like he really cares about making sure I’m okay.

  ‘Kim, stand here, yeah?’ Andy says.

  He has a hand on each of my shoulders, and he doesn’t let go until Kim is right beside me ready to grab on.

  ‘I have her,’ Kim says, triumphant.

  ‘Right! Good. Let the water keep running.’ Andy tosses his head over his shoulder and looks at the bath filling up quickly. ‘I’m going downstairs. I’ll make some soup or something. Warm her up from the inside out too.’ Andy turns back to face me, and his whole face smiles. ‘You hungry, Emma?’