by Nicole Trope
The Nowhere Girl
A completely gripping and emotional page-turner
Nicole Trope
Books by Nicole Trope
My Daughter’s Secret
The Boy in the Photo
The Nowhere Girl
Available in Audio
My Daughter’s Secret (Available in the UK and US)
The Boy in the Photo (Available in the UK and US)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
The Boy in the Photo
Hear More from Nicole
Books by Nicole Trope
A Letter from Nicole
My Daughter’s Secret
Acknowledgements
Prologue
‘Please,’ she whispers, too quietly for anyone to hear. ‘Please,’ she whispers again. ‘Please help.’
But there is no one. Where is everyone? There should be cars filled with people. That’s what she’s here for – cars filled with people. Help should be racing up the road, screeching to a stop. Help should be here but it’s not. Help is as far away as it’s ever been.
The road remains empty. A long stretch of darkness leading nowhere. She touches her damp cheek – sweat? Tears?
The heat is heavy, sticky, refusing to let go despite the day ending hours ago, despite it being another day already. She wants to turn around, she wants to run back, back to where it’s safe, but it would mean running back through the years. You can’t run back to your past.
A truck appears, huge, with more wheels than she can count. Her heart lifts, but the vehicle thunders by, sending bits of gravel flying into the air, leaving behind it the smell of burnt rubber. The driver is only looking forward, staring at the empty road ahead of him. It would be better if it was a woman anyway. A woman, a woman who can think for herself, would help, but a man might hurt.
She is so tired. Tired, scared, heartbroken. She wishes she knew how to not feel anything at all.
Her knees are aching now. She feels old. She is too young to feel this old, to know this much, to be doing what she’s doing.
She would like to turn around, to run back home. Home, she thinks – such a nice word. For most people it means family and love and comfort, but not for her.
‘Not for me,’ she whispers. She has no home. She has a house where other people live. Other people who hurt her or ignore her, other people who don’t deserve children. That’s why she’s doing this. That’s why it has to happen.
Where are all the people in their cars?
A sleek sports car appears, going so fast it takes her breath away. By the time she realises it’s there, it’s passed by. It might have been blue or black. It’s difficult to tell with only the streetlights on.
‘Please help,’ she prays, knowing it won’t do any good. She swats at a mosquito and wipes her face again.
She feels like she’s been here forever.
But finally, finally another car appears. Going slowly enough to see, to register what’s there. It stops.
A woman climbs out, young and wobbly on high spiked heels that clip-clop against the tarmac. Bright pink hair shines in the streetlight. She totters over, swaying as she walks.
Is she drunk? the little girl wonders. Drunk isn’t good. Drunk means you stop thinking about anyone else, stop feeling for anyone else. She cannot deal with drunk. Not again. She begins to stand up but then the woman speaks.
‘Are you, like, lost?’ she asks, her voice soft and sweet. ‘Are you lost?’
And then she turns and looks back at the car she has just gotten out of. ‘We need to call the police,’ she yells at the unseen driver. ‘Come on,’ she says, holding out her hand.
The little girl slips her hand into the stranger’s.
She lets out the breath she’s been holding. She’s done it. She’s actually done it.
One
Now
Alice
* * *
I inch my car forward in the primary school pickup line, glancing at the clock on the dashboard for what feels like the tenth time in five minutes. It’s already twenty past three and Isaac will be outside the high school by three thirty. The primary school and the high school are only a few minutes apart but I can’t help feeling anxious. I hate being late for him, hate the idea of him peering worriedly up and down the road. I’ve never actually been late, not once, but I’m always afraid I might be. He’ll know I’m coming since I’ve never let him down, but I don’t want him to have to think about it, to have to wonder. It’s a terrible thing to be unsure if you will be fetched from school or not. Yet there are worse things. It’s a terrible thing to wonder if you will be fed or not, to wonder if you are loved or not. I know that, but still, I cannot help but panic at the idea of being late for my eldest son.
‘They will survive… will be fine if you’re a few minutes behind, Alice, especially Isaac – he’s not really a child anymore,’ my husband Jack has said, trying to reassure me. He understands but at the same time he doesn’t understand.
I adjust my sunglasses, warding off the glare from the afternoon sun in a cloudless, cold, blue sky.
Finally, I reach the front. I lean forward and straighten the sign lying on the dashboard, making sure my surname is clear to the teachers.
The large group of children waiting to be picked up spills out of the black wrought-iron gates of the school and onto the pavement with two teachers in front of them to prevent anyone from dashing into the road. Despite it being the end of the day, I can see they are still buzzing with energy, shouting and talking, shoving each other and jumping up and down. Uniforms are stained and crumpled and faces are smudged with dirt but there are smiles and laughter, loud conversations and singing all going on at the same time. Pure happiness, pure joy and everything children should be.
As each car pulls into place, there are always two or three kids who recognise the mother or father or grandparent or nanny in the car and alert their classmates to their arrival. As I reach the front of the line, news of my arrival spreads quickly.
‘Gus and Gabe, Gus and Gabe,’ shouts a little girl whose glasses are secured to her face with a wide strap, ‘your mum’s here, your mum’s here.’ The level of excitement that ripples through the group makes me smile. You would think these children
were worried about not being picked up despite the guaranteed arrival of a parent or caregiver every single day. This is a privileged primary school in an affluent neighbourhood. These are the children of parents who devote their lives to their kids. School notices contain regular updates about food that’s been banned because of sugar content and exhortations to ‘buy organic’. These children are shuttled from ballet and football to tennis and violin. They are given everything their hearts desire and can be certain they are loved. Only half the children waiting to be picked up are wearing jumpers despite the cold weather of this first week of winter. I know, without having to think about it, that Gus will not be wearing his jumper, but Gabe will be. Gus’s jumper will be in his bag, or in the classroom or somewhere in the playground, forgotten.
I watch as the news of the arrival of Gus and Gabe’s mother spreads quickly through the crowd before the teacher in charge of pickup glances at the sign on the front of my dash and lifts her megaphone to her mouth. ‘Stetson twins,’ her voice booms across the crowd, but Gus and Gabe are already at the car, pushing each other out of the way, trying to be first to get in.
‘Augustus and Gabriel Stetson,’ she calls, ‘you will calm down.’ Gus and Gabe immediately stop their pushing and shoving and stand quietly by the car. A hush falls over the group of children, awed by the teacher’s loud voice and the reprimand in front of everyone. I want to laugh, I really do, but instead I purse my lips and try to look disappointed in the two of them. I would hate to undermine a teacher. The boys climb, chastened, into the car, bringing with them their little-boy smell of fruit and sweaty hair. Outside, the wind is blowing and there is a chill in the air but, as predicted, Gus is not wearing his jumper.
I nod my head at Marie Winslow, their teacher. She’s nearing retirement and I can’t help but feel that she’s very tired of young children, especially my boisterous twins. My rambunctious little terrors, my beautiful boys.
‘Quick sticks,’ I say as they shove their bags onto the floor and buckle up their seat belts. I pull away before saying anything else, allowing the next car to slide into place.
‘So how was your day, boys?’ I ask.
‘Me first, me first,’ yells Gus. Gus always has to be first; first out of the womb by five minutes means he gets to celebrate his birthday a whole day earlier than his brother. He was first to crawl and walk and talk, and still, at the age of nine, insists on being first at everything. He is running at life at full tilt and I worry that when he’s older he will be the kind of child who believes he’s invincible, who thinks fast cars are fun and a new drug is worth a try.
‘You… you worry too much,’ Jack has told me. Of course I do.
‘You went first yesterday, Gus,’ I say. ‘Today Gabe is going first. Gabe, how was your day?’
‘Um,’ says Gabe and then he is quiet. I can actually feel Gus’s frustration. He has so many stories to tell me, he’s not even sure where to begin, but I know he won’t interrupt his brother. Interrupting means half an hour less on the computer later so Gus keeps quiet, but I can feel his fizzing desperation to speak from the back seat.
‘Today in art,’ Gabe says finally, ‘I drew a picture of our house. It took me a long time because I had to make sure that I got it right, especially the big trees in the front garden where the king parrots like to sit, but Mr Mahmood let me stay and finish at lunch. I was allowed to be in the classroom alone because he says I’m very responsible, and when he came in after, he told me that I’m a real artist. He said my king parrots look friendly. He liked their red bodies and their green wings.’
‘Oh, Gabe, how wonderful,’ I say, a rush of love for my quiet, serious child filling me. ‘I’m so proud of you for taking the time to really work on your drawing.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Gabe, ‘I took my time.’
I risk a quick glance in the rear-view mirror at Gabe’s face. He has Jack’s deep blue eyes and jet-black hair but my generous mouth, unlike his brother with his striking red hair and emerald-green eyes. ‘My Irish great-grandmother making sure we don’t forget her,’ Jack always says. The boys do not look like twins. They barely look like brothers, and while the idea of identical twins seemed enticing to me when I was pregnant, I’m pleased that they look so different. They are very distinctive children, and their separation in both looks and personality has allowed them to forge their own way forward at school and, I hope, in the future too.
‘Okay, Gus, your turn,’ I say.
‘Yay, I went across the monkey bars three times at lunch and I didn’t fall once and I didn’t eat my sandwich because I told you I hate cheese and honey or maybe I did hate it at lunch but I ate it now because I was hungry and I don’t have homework but Ali says he’ll be on the computer at five and I want to be on the computer at five so we can play Minecraft together and I was the fastest to finish my maths test today but I got three wrong so Charlie is the best in the class and she said she was the best so I stuck my tongue out at her and then she said she was going to tell so I said sorry and now she’s not going to tell but it was only a tongue and what’s the big deal and I’m starving, what’s for dinner?’
‘Goodness,’ is all I can manage as his words wash over me. ‘What a busy day that was. You can be on the computer at five but only if I can see your diary and make sure you have no homework. And I thought we’d have lasagne for dinner.’
‘I like lasagne,’ says Gabe.
‘Me too!’ shouts Gus and the boys laugh as though someone has told a joke. I can’t help laughing with them. No one mentions how funny you will find your own children. I don’t think there’s a day when one or all three of them don’t make me laugh.
I pull up into the car park at the front of the high school just as Isaac ambles out, his head down, his thumbs moving furiously as he checks Instagram or texts a friend or does whatever it is he’s doing on the phone he is glued to. He looks up and grins when he sees my car. ‘Hey, Mum,’ he says as he slides into the front seat. ‘Hey, you ratbags,’ he throws over his shoulder at his brothers.
‘How was your day, Isaac?’ asks Gabe, and I know I don’t have to tell Gus to keep quiet because Isaac is speaking, and as far as the twins are concerned, their fourteen-year-old brother is the closest thing to a real-life superhero they’ll ever get to meet.
Isaac is the only one of my children who looks like me. ‘Are you sure I was involved with this one?’ Jack likes to joke. My eldest has the same shade of dusty-brown hair I do, the same chestnut-coloured eyes and an identical heart-shaped face. He is tall and slim and towers over me already, and I’m sure it won’t be long until he’s bigger than Jack as well.
‘My day was good, Gabe,’ says Isaac. ‘I’ve got tons of homework, Mum, and a project for history and another one for science. I don’t know how I’m going to get it all done because I have two matches this weekend.’
I throw him a quick smile – Isaac, my gorgeous perfectionist.
‘You’re going to score the most goals again, Isaac,’ says Gus, starry-eyed. ‘One day I’m going to be the captain of my football team as well.’
‘I bet you are, mate,’ agrees Isaac, ‘and Gabe will be the best artist in the school.’
‘I will,’ says Gabe.
‘You’ll manage to get the work done, love, you always do,’ I say to Isaac, remembering him at two years old. He was an absolute terror, refusing to sleep, climbing onto counters, throwing himself at every dangerous thing he could find. But he has matured into a lovely, patient young man who rarely gets angry enough to shout and seems to be managing his teenage years with good-natured humour. He stares down at his phone again, angling it slightly away from me. He is, of course, very protective of his phone.
‘Yeah, I guess. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.’
‘Everyone in this car is always starving,’ I laugh.
But as quickly as the laugh bubbles up it disappears. Don’t think about it, I tell myself as Gus and Gabe chat about moves they will make on Minecraft later and Isaac�
��s thumb sweeps across his screen.
I see the kitchen table, round and topped with peeling, grubby laminate, the chipboard showing where whole pieces have broken off. ‘Cereal for dinner again,’ I can hear myself saying, as though it were yesterday instead of thirty-two years ago. ‘No, no!’ I remember her shouting. I couldn’t blame her really. The sweet, crunchy rings were nauseating without milk, especially when we’d already had them for breakfast and lunch. But it was cereal or nothing. The fridge was empty, the pantry containing only rice and when I looked inside the packet, the grains wriggled furiously, alive and disgusting. ‘Please eat,’ I remember begging. ‘Look, it’s delicious.’ I filled my mouth, crunching the rings, and then opened wide to show her the multicoloured mess, making her laugh and eventually convincing her to shove a handful into her own mouth.
But that is not my life, not the life my children are living.
I’m not sure I ever meant to be a mother. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a baby, I did. I wanted one with every fibre of my being but I was terrified to bring a child into the world, terrified of what I would do and who I would become.
