Girl, Missing (7 page)

I looked quickly round the room. My eyes fell on the ‘Marchfield makes miracles' poster on the wall. It had a thin, metal frame.

‘We can use this.' I lifted the poster off its hook. With trembling hands I unclipped the back board and carefully removed the glass. I held the frame steady while Jam ripped the side of it away from the top.

‘Lucky it wasn't welded,' he whispered. He took the thin
sliver of metal over to the filing cabinet and began working it through the top drawer.

I tiptoed to the door, listening out for any noise. The agency was silent. Creepy. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

I turned round and stared at the broken bits of frame on the carpet. ‘We've ruined this,' I said. ‘And their window.'

Jam snorted softly from the filing cabinet. ‘So what d'you wanna do? Leave some of Mr Tarsen's money to pay for it?' He breathed out heavily, forcing his weight against the metal frame. ‘Come and help me with this.'

It took several minutes to prise open the drawer. We both leaned so hard on the metal lever, driving it back on itself, that I was afraid it would break before it forced the lock. But at last there was a splintering snap. The drawer opened.

I wondered how long we'd been in the agency. Too long already. Heart racing, I pulled the drawer open and began rooting through the files. After a few seconds my throat tightened. ‘It's not here,' I said. ‘This is A to G.'

Jam stared at me from the door, where he was now listening out for anyone coming. ‘Must be in the next one down.'

My heart was totally in my mouth by the time we prised open the second drawer.

I scanned the files inside so quickly I missed my own name twice. Then I saw it.
Lauren Matthews
.

Below the name-marker was a slim green folder, fastened on three sides like an envelope. I reached into the folder. My fingers closed on air.

‘It's not here.' I felt deeper inside the folder, desperate for something, anything to be inside it.

‘Lauren,' Jam whispered from the doorway.

‘Wait.' My hand grasped at a scrap of paper, tucked right in the corner of the folder. I pulled it out.

‘Lauren,' Jam whispered again, more urgently. ‘Someone's coming. We have to go. Now.'

11

Leaving . . .

I shoved the piece of paper into my pocket. Raced to the door.

The heavy tread of footsteps echoed in the distance.

‘Run,' I hissed.

We pelted along the corridor towards the broken window. The footsteps behind us grew louder and faster. I hauled myself out through the jagged frame, tearing my jeans on the glass as I did so.

I could hear Jam panting behind me as we clattered down the fire escape.

I looked back up to the window as I jumped the last few steps. A dark figure was standing, framed by the broken glass, watching us.

It was Mr Tarsen.

My skin erupted in goosebumps. The way he was just standing there. Why wasn't he yelling out? Or chasing us?

We tore back onto Main Street and along to the motel.

‘D'you think Tarsen's called the police?' Jam gasped as we let ourselves into the room.

‘Dunno.' I shivered, thinking about the way he'd stared at us.

‘We gotta get out of here.' Jam picked up his backpack, then took his PSP off the table and shoved it in his pocket.

I checked the time on the clock by the bed. ‘It's too early,' I said. ‘The first bus doesn't go for another hour.'

‘We can't wait,' Jam said. ‘We'll have to get a taxi. From that twenty-four-hour place we passed.'

I nodded, mentally going over the money we had left. Just over one hundred dollars. I hoped that would be enough.

We rushed back up the road to the cab company. Main Street was still eerily silent. My mind kept going over what had happened. None of it made sense

Why was my adoption file empty? I could think of only one explanation: Mr Tarsen had guessed we would come looking for it and had taken the contents himself. So why wasn't he here, now? Why wasn't he chasing us?

As we hurried into the taxi office, I remembered the scrap of paper from the bottom of the file. While Jam went to order a cab, I sat down in the waiting area and pulled it out of my jeans pocket.

It was obviously the corner of some official form. Several of the handwritten letters on the right were missing where the paper had been torn.

Apt. 34
10904 Lincoln Hei
Leaving

Jam finished talking to the taxi man and wandered over. ‘The guy says they'll have a cab in a couple of minutes. $80 cash.'

I showed him the paper. ‘It's an address,' I said. ‘Maybe Sonia Holtwood's. Look. I think “Hei” means “Heights”. Lincoln Heights.'

Jam frowned. ‘But that could be anywhere. And it says “Leaving” underneath. So even if Sonia used to live there, she's obviously not there now.'

I nodded, my mind still on the address. Surely there was no harm in asking if the cab operator knew where Lincoln Heights was.

He was lounging on a stool, his legs propped up on the counter in front of him. As I walked over, he looked up and pushed back his long, greasy fringe. ‘Hey,' he drawled. ‘I just told your boyfriend. Two minutes.'

‘I know,' I said. ‘I was just wondering if you knew where this was?' I laid the scrap of paper on the counter.

The man scratched his head. ‘I got no idea about Lincoln Heights, but Leavington's ten miles or so,' he said.

I stared at him, then back at the scrap of paper. ‘Leaving' wasn't ‘leaving'. It was the start of . . .

‘Leavington?'

‘Yep. It's on the way to Burlington. But I thought you wanted to go straight to the airport?'

My heart pounded. I ran back to Jam.

He was looking out of the window. ‘I can't hear any police up by the motel. But if Tarsen's been watching us . . .' He turned and saw my face, all eager. ‘What?'

I explained about the address. ‘It's got to be Sonia's. She might still be there,' I said, breathlessly.

I'd expected Jam to suggest we went to Leavington immediately. But instead he shook his head.

‘Get real, Lazerbrain,' he said. He wasn't smiling.

My heart sank. ‘What?'

‘This could be anyone's address . . .'

‘But it was in my file,' I said.

‘Plus it's at least eleven years old.' Jam rolled his eyes. ‘Look, we tried to find your file. It wasn't there. What else can we do? Don't you . . . I mean, doesn't it seem to you like you're getting kind of obsessed?'

I don't think I would have felt more shocked if he'd slapped me. ‘No.' I blinked and stepped away from him. ‘I'm not obsessed.'

‘Then why do you want to go to an old address on a random scrap of paper? It's ridiculous.'

‘No it's not,' I said, stung. ‘If it was in my file, then it must have something to do with my adoption. And Mr
Tarsen virtually admitted Sonia Holtwood was my mother, so . . .'

‘Even if the address
is
to do with your adoption, if you were stolen from your real family it's not likely to be genuine, is it?'

I was sure he was wrong. But what he said sounded so logical I couldn't see how to disagree with it.

‘Fine,' I snapped. ‘Thanks for your help.'

Jam turned on me. ‘Jesus, Lauren,' he hissed. ‘I've just broken into a building for you. How much more help d'you want?'

I stared at him, my breathing fast and my jaw clenched.

‘If that's how you feel about it, I'll go there by myself.'

I marched over to the chairs on the other side of the room and slumped into the seat in the corner. The floor was stained and dirty. I kicked at a scuff mark. How dare Jam say I was obsessed? Let him try and live not knowing about his past. He'd soon realise how hard it was. Like walking through an earthquake. The ground always shifting under your feet as you imagined one possible history after another.

I bent over, determined Jam shouldn't see me cry.

Silence. Then the cab operator called Jam over to his booth. I could hear them speaking in low voices.

I wiped my eyes. Footsteps. A shadow fell over the scuff mark on the floor. Jam squatted down in front of me.

He leaned towards me, his head tilted sideways, trying to see my face.

‘The cab's ready,' he said. He paused. ‘D'you really want to go to this Leavington place?'

I nodded, still not trusting myself to look up at him.

Jam put his hand on the chair next to me. ‘On your own?' he said.

I gritted my teeth. It was no good. Just the thought of doing all this by myself was enough to turn me into a quivering wreck.

‘No,' I sobbed. ‘I want you to come.' I looked up at him, a tear trickling down my cheek. ‘Please?'

Jam's eyes softened. I'd never noticed but they were hazel, not brown. With gold flecks beside the green.

I looked away quickly, wiping my face again.

Crap. I must look totally hideous. Just like he said
.

Jam squeezed my arm. ‘Leavington, then,' he said. ‘Bring it on.'

12

Lincoln Heights

Leavington was a dump. So run-down it made Marchfield look smart. Street after street of big apartment buildings all bunched together in straggly lines, with front yards full of rubbish.

The cab driver was massively narked when we explained we wanted to stop off at Lincoln Heights for thirty minutes or so.

He refused to wait for us unless we covered his fare – which would have taken too much of our remaining money.

‘It's OK,' I said to Jam. ‘We'll get another cab to Burlington. Or a bus.'

Once he knew he wasn't getting his full fare to the airport the driver grumbled the whole way to Leavington. He grumbled about having to look up Lincoln Heights on his map. Then he grumbled about some one-way system which meant he couldn't drop us outside. When he finally did pull up, he made a massive fuss about not having much change and needing us to give him the exact money. Of course I only had the hundred-dollar bill Taylor Tarsen had given me.

The driver took it, then turned away and dug deep into a pouch beside his seat.

‘Here,' he growled. He pushed a huge wodge of folded-over notes into my hand and drove off.

I shoved the money into my pocket and shouldered my bag. It was 6.15 am, just starting to get light. A small knot of older teenagers were leaning against a nearby wall. They looked like they'd been out all night. Two of the guys stared at us, their eyes all hard and threatening.

Heart pounding, I grabbed Jam's arm and strode off in the opposite direction. The weather matched the scenery. Dull, ugly, steel-grey clouds filled every centimetre of sky. And the air was bitterly cold.

Jam spent his last few dollars on weak coffee and doughnuts from a grubby stall on the corner. Then suddenly we were there. 10904 Lincoln Heights.

It was like all the other buildings in the road. Dark. Dirty. Crumbling. The front door was locked. And none of the buzzers on the chipped side panel appeared to work.

At last a woman came out and scurried down the steps. We slipped inside before the front door shut.

‘Ugh.' Jam wrinkled his nose.

I swallowed, trying not to breathe in the rank smell of stale piss and rotting food that drifted down from the stained, concrete stairs.

We made our way slowly up to apartment thirty-four on
the top floor. Once again, I knew that if Jam wasn't beside me I would have turned and run away. In fact, if I hadn't made so much fuss about coming here, I probably would have suggested we left right now.

Surely it was hopeless? There was no way Sonia still lived here.
Jeez
. She'd probably never lived here. I just didn't know. But as we stood outside apartment thirty-four I suddenly had this overwhelming sense she was going to open the door. And then what?

What would I say?

Hey. Did you kidnap me eleven years ago?

Suppose I was wrong? Suppose she really was my mother? Suppose she took one look at me and slammed the door in my face?

Jam was already knocking.

I stood frozen to the spot. The door was opening.

I stared at the girl standing in front of us. Then I relaxed. It wasn't Sonia. Couldn't be Sonia. She was way too young. No more than eighteen or nineteen.

The girl had a baby in her arms, and a toddler clutching at her knee. She tucked a wisp of greasy hair behind her ears and scowled at me.

‘What you want?' she said, her voice heavily accented. Spanish, I think.

‘We're looking for someone called Sonia Holtwood,' I said. ‘I think she used to live here.'

‘No,' the girl said. ‘She no live here.' She started closing the door.

‘Wait,' I said, pushing it open against her.

‘Hey. Dejame. Puta. Get out.' The girl's voice rose in a shriek.

‘Please, is there anyone else you can ask? Someone who might remember who used to live here?'

But the girl had totally lost it. She was screaming at me now. Lots of Spanish words I didn't understand.

‘No se,' she shouted. ‘I don't know.' She slammed the door shut.

I blinked. I could sense a few of the other doors open further down the corridor. People nosing outside to see what all the noise was about. There was a shuffling of feet as they turned and went inside.

I looked up at Jam.

‘Guess that's it,' he said.

‘Excuse me, darlin'.'

I looked round. An old lady in the apartment opposite had appeared at her door. She was stooped over with age, and the skin on her face and arms was wrinkled in folds like fine paper.

‘Did I hear you askin' for Sonia?' she said ‘Sonia Holtwood?'

‘Yes.' I looked at her eagerly. ‘Do you know her? Did she used to live here?'

The old lady stared at me with bright, hard eyes. ‘Oh yes,' she said. ‘She was only here a short time, but I used to babysit her little girl.'