Sarah
The examiner’s pen scratched across the form. “Congratulations,” he said without looking up, “you’ve passed.” Julia’s hands trembled as she texted Sarah from the Shrewsbury test center parking lot: “FREEDOM!!!” Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Nothing came back.
The following afternoon, Eleanor stood in the driveway, keys dangling from her finger. Behind her sat a black Mini Cooper, its paint job showing patches where the sun had faded it unevenly. “For emergencies only,” Eleanor said, dropping the keys into Julia’s palm with a wink that suggested otherwise. Julia slid behind the wheel, inhaled the scent of aged leather and pine air freshener, and felt the digital world temporarily shrink in her rearview mirror.
The absence of Sarah’s name on her phone was, at first, a relief; maybe she’d finally gone on that trip to North Wales, or found a distraction that lasted more than a weekend.
But by the second day, Julia felt the tickle of unease. She sent a message, then another, each one more obvious in its need: “Are you alive?” “Earth to Saz.” “SOS if Miller has kidnapped you.” The messages delivered, but the read receipts never flicked on. The last green dot on Sarah’s social appeared two days ago, at half past midnight, with the caption: “Why do mornings happen to people?” Julia reread it until it felt like a clue.
On the third day, Julia called. The line rang out, then went dead. She called the stables, got the owner, who said, “She’s probably just out with her boyfriend. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.” He sounded more bored than worried.
Julia went to her mother, who was in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge as if trying to decode its contents. Charlotte was softer now, her hair a wild frizz haloing her head, her voice prone to trailing off mid-sentence.
“I think Sarah’s missing,” Julia said.
Charlotte closed the fridge, but not the thought. “She’s always been a bit of a gypsy, hasn’t she?”
Julia shook her head. “No messages. No Instagram. Not even a like on the last thing I posted.”
Charlotte considered this, then nodded, as if conceding the point. “Should we check the stables?”
“They haven’t seen her since last week.”
Charlotte leaned against the counter, the weight of the day suddenly too much for her legs. “Maybe she’s with a friend. Or she’s gone off with that man.” She said it with the ambiguous accent of approval and disdain.
Julia let the silence build, then said, “Can we go to her flat?”
Charlotte hesitated, then seemed to decide that yes, this was a normal thing to do.
They drove into town, the heat a white sheet over the roads. Sarah’s flat was above the bakery, windows painted shut, the front door sticky with humidity. A neighbor let them in—an old woman who wore a housecoat even in summer and who eyed Julia as if she was casing the place.
“You family?” the neighbor asked.
“Cousin,” Julia said.
“Hasn’t been back in days. Heard some noise last Thursday, thought she was moving furniture. Since then, nothing. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“We’ll just check the flat,” Julia said, and led her mother up the carpeted stairs, Charlotte gripping the handrail as if the climb was a small Everest.
The door wasn’t locked, just latched from the outside. Inside, the place was as Sarah had left it—clothes on the drying rack, a half-emptied wine bottle on the dressing table, the sharp scent of horse gear and perfume.
But there were signs that something had shifted. Her wallet was on the kitchen counter, open, cards still inside. Her boots were by the bedroom door, muddy but upright. Her phone was not on the charger, nor anywhere else they searched.
Julia walked the perimeter of the flat, checking for any detail out of place. The duvet was crumpled at the foot of the bed, as if she’d left in a hurry. A mug in the sink with the remains of instant coffee, black. In the bathroom, her makeup was scattered across the counter, brushes left mid-use.
Charlotte stood in the middle of the lounge, hands clasped. “It’s so… Sarah.”
Julia found herself angry at the flat for not yielding any clues. “It’s like she just evaporated.”
Charlotte nodded, the lines in her face tightening.
They left, letting the door click behind them. Downstairs, the neighbor said, “I’ll keep an ear out. But she’s a grown woman, isn’t she? Probably just found herself a better place to stay.”
The following day, Julia and Priya walked side by side through the sunlit quad toward the cafeteria. Julia balanced a tray stacked with grilled chicken wrap, a mound of couscous salad, and a black coffee. Priya carried a bowl of curried lentils, its steam curling around her fingers. They found a table by a window where the midday light cut stripes across the floor.
Julia picked at the crust of her wrap, gaze fixed on her plate but answering Priya’s questions as she ate. When she finished she looked up. “It’s my cousin Sarah,” she said, voice low. “She’s been missing since last week. No one’s heard from her, and… I don’t know if they’re taking it seriously.”
Priya’s coffee cup paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down and reached across the table, covering Julia’s hand with hers. The heat from their palms flickered between them. “You should call the police,” Priya said quietly. “It won’t hurt to try.”
Julia swallowed. Her throat felt thick. “Do you think they’d listen to me?”
Priya’s thumb brushed Julia’s knuckles. “You’re worried, and that’s reason enough. You’re not alone in this.”
When the cafeteria bell sounded, Julia stood and gathered her tray. Outside, the late afternoon sun warmed the pavement as they walked toward the parking lot. Julia’s new friend fell into step beside her, the late-day light turning Priya’s hair to copper. Julia fished her phone from her pocket, heart pounding. Priya gave her an encouraging smile and left her alone. By the time she reached her car, she’d dialed the number, ready to speak up—for Sarah, and for herself.
The officer who answered was young, but already had the voice of someone who’d learned how to stall. “Have you tried contacting her friends? Boyfriend? Sometimes people just want space.”
Julia said, “This isn’t normal for her. She’s never missed work without calling.”
He said he’d “make a note of it,” and then asked for a photo. Julia sent one from her phone—a snap of Sarah astride a horse, laughing at the camera, a red-haired goddess in high spirits.
“Looks like quite a character,” the officer said.
“She is,” Julia replied, her throat suddenly tight.
That night, Julia lay awake in the dark, phone clutched in her hand, refreshing the chat window every few minutes.
She thought about the flat, the wine on the dressing table, the way the boots were lined up like soldiers.
She wondered what it would feel like, to disappear so completely, to leave behind only the suggestion of self.
She wondered what it would take to bring Sarah home.