A MISSING GIRL, A SECRET DIARY AND UNSETTLING REVELATIONS …

  Today is the first of September, the first day of spring, and it’s been sixty-four days since I last saw Sophie Abercrombie. It’s been sixty-four days since anyone saw Sophie Abercrombie.

  The prettiest Sophie.

  The missing Sophie.

  As Sophie MacKenzie — Mac — confides to her diary, she last saw Sophie Abercrombie kissing James Bacon, their English teacher. Mac has passed this on to the police, but there is plenty she knows about James Bacon that she has kept to herself. She hasn’t even told Twiggy, the third Sophie in their once tightknit threesome.

  The Trio of Sophies is no more.

  Contents

  PART I

  DAY 64

  DAY 63

  DAY 62

  DAY 61

  DAY 60

  DAY 59

  DAY 58

  DAY 57

  DAY 56

  DAY 55

  DAY 54

  DAY 53

  DAY 52

  DAY 51

  DAY 50

  DAY 49

  DAY 48

  DAY 47

  DAY 46

  DAY 45

  DAY 44

  DAY 43

  DAY 42

  DAY 41

  DAY 40

  DAY 39

  DAY 38

  DAY 37

  DAY 36

  DAY 35

  DAY 34

  DAY 33

  DAY 32

  DAY 31

  DAY 30

  DAY 29

  DAY 28

  DAY 27

  DAY 26

  DAY 25

  DAY 24

  DAY 23

  DAY 22

  DAY 21

  DAY 20

  DAY 19

  DAY 18

  DAY 17

  DAY 16

  DAY 15

  DAY 14

  DAY 13

  DAY 12

  DAY 11

  DAY 10

  DAY 9

  DAY 8

  DAY 7

  DAY 6

  DAY 5

  DAY 4

  DAY 3

  DAY 2

  DAY 1

  DAY 0

  PART II

  DAY 65

  DAY 100

  DAY 126

  DAY 128

  DAY 129

  DAY 133

  DAY 136

  DAY 137

  DAY 140

  DAY 141

  DAY 143

  DAY 144

  DAY 151

  PART III

  DAY 28

  DAY 30

  DAY 40

  DAY 64

  WILL

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  FOLLOW PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE

  To Mum, for believing in me

  PART I

  DAY 64

  Today is the first of September, the first day of spring, and it’s been sixty-four days since I last saw Sophie Abercrombie. It’s been sixty-four days since anyone saw Sophie Abercrombie.

  The prettiest Sophie.

  The missing Sophie.

  The Trio of Sophies is no more. When was the last time I had to explain about us? Perhaps to the police: ‘Sophie Twiggs is Sophie T, Twiggy to her friends.’ I remember telling them that she’s the sporty one, a bit like Sporty Spice from a pop band my mum used to listen to when she was in high school. The female officer smiled at that. ‘I’m Sophie M, Sophie MacKenzie, Mac to my friends,’ I went on, but didn’t add what I always think at this point: that I’m plain-Jane Sophie — not too pretty, not too sporty, but smarter than both other Sophies combined. It’s true — all I care about is getting good enough marks to get into medical school, so I can study to be a forensic pathologist. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  The police kept asking when I last saw Sophie A, so I had to tell them what I had witnessed.

  The last time I saw Sophie A, she was kissing James Bacon. She could have any guy she wanted, but she was kissing an English teacher who was eight years older than her. Was. Is. I hope it’s is.

  Thanks to Mr Bacon, I know the difference between past and present tense.

  DAY 63

  It’s been sixty-three days since Sophie A went missing, and her picture is still all over the newspapers and on the TV. People are seeing her in all sorts of places, strolling along Piha beach or down Queen Street and even on the Gold Coast of Australia. But every time the police try to chase a lead, it comes to nothing.

  I read somewhere that most crimes are committed by someone the victim knows, which I guess is why the cops have been talking to Mr Bacon and Dave Williams, Sophie A’s stepfather. Not to mention half of year thirteen at Eastbrook High, including yours truly.

  Of course the police talked to me and Twiggy. We’re Sophie A’s best friends, after all. We didn’t have much to say, apart from me telling them about Sophie A kissing Mr Bacon, which I offered up straight away. The kissing thing happened the day Sophie A went missing.

  But who knows if Sophie going missing had anything to do with Mr Bacon. How would I know? I don’t know anything. I’m just trying to keep my head down and study. This business has tossed the whole community upside down. I wish it could just return to normal. I’m going to screw up my exams at this rate, and then I’ll never get into university.

  I hope they find her alive, but it’s not looking good.

  DAY 62

  Twiggy gave me a ride home from school today, for the first time in weeks. I was walking out of the school gates when I saw her parked outside in her orange Mini Cooper. Twiggy’s parents gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday, before she’d even passed her learner’s test.

  I got a new pair of shoes for school for my sixteenth birthday. Twiggy doesn’t know the difference between a need and a want. She doesn’t have to.

  Twiggy probably wouldn’t have given me a lift home if she hadn’t accidentally looked me in the eye. I smiled and waved. The passenger window came down, and Twiggy called out, ‘Want a lift?’ As always, her liquorice-black locks were tied up in a ponytail. Her mouth was smiling, but her dark irises were flat.

  ‘That would be great. Thanks.’ I shut the door and Twiggy pulled into the traffic. ‘That Biology test was awful, wasn’t it?’

  Twiggy adjusted her rear-vision mirror. ‘What’s your idea of awful — ninety per cent?’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ I was twisting a chunk of hair into a side plait. I dyed it silver-blonde last summer. Goodbye, mouse. Why I didn’t do that sooner, I don’t know.

  ‘Just saying.’ Twiggy barely slowed as we went through a roundabout and sped up the hill. Around us, students sauntered in twos and threes in their puke-green Eastbrook uniforms, laughing and yelling at each other. ‘I’m hoping my assignment will make up for my shit test score.’

  Starting on a plait on the opposite side, I said, ‘If you invest enough, it will.’

  Twiggy stared at me for a moment before looking back at the road.

  ‘If I invest enough. It’s never enough, is it, Mac?’

  ‘It’s your future,’ I murmured, just before my seatbelt snapped tight across my chest. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Cat,’ Twiggy said, and we both watched a tabby tail disappear beneath a bush. She exhaled and indicated right, driving away from the big houses with their wide driveways and SUVs, away from the beaches and the mums in their activewear pushing designer prams.

  As we drove down the hill, the houses became smaller and closer together. Our bungalow is squeezed between a block of flats on one side and a sagging villa with ever-changing tenants on the other side.

  Twiggy bumped into the driveway and killed the engine. ‘It’s been two months.’

  ‘Two months and one day.’ I reached for my bag.

  ‘Whatever. They’re not going to find her alive, are they?’ Twiggy’s voice was wobbly. It was giving me a squeezing feeling in my chest.

  ‘Not unless she’s been abducted, no.’

  ‘Abducted.’ Twiggy’s tone was almost mocking. ‘You always have to use such big words, don’t you?’

  ‘Screw you.’ I opened the door so I could escape, but Twiggy grabbed my wrist.

  ‘Do you really think Mr Bacon’s got something to do with this?’

  And I said, ‘I think he’s got everything to do with this.’

  DAY 61

  When I woke this morning, the rain was pounding the roof, crescendo-decrescendo, like the beating of my heart. It made me wonder how many heartbeats I had left. Is that predetermined, in the same way that the number of menstrual cycles I’m ever going to have is determined at birth, because all my eggs are already formed in my ovaries?

  We learned that in Biology this year. I thought that was pretty amazing. That was a few weeks after I’d gone to Family Planning and asked them to prescribe me the contraceptive pill, so I could stop my eggs being released.

  I wonder what happens to those eggs. Do they die? Or do they wait until I stop taking the pill, ready to be released so they can fuse with a sperm and make an embryo?

  Ugh, that grosses me out. I don’t think I ever want to have children.

  There was a knock on my door. ‘Sophie, you’re going to be late.’

  ‘I’ll get up soon,’ I called out, burrowing beneath my pillow. It never used to be so hard to get out of bed in the morning. Not because I can’t wake up, but because it’s just too hard to get moving, especially on a weekday.

  I used to get up and go for runs in the morning. But I’ve har
dly been for any runs since June, when my world twisted inside out, outside in.

  I can’t wait until this year is over.

  Five minutes later, Mum didn’t even bother knocking before flinging the door open.

  ‘If you want a lift to school then you’d better get going. It’s pouring out there, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  As if I could have missed the fact it was raining. I used to love the beat of the rain on the roof, but now the sound of it makes me feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.

  ‘I was getting up.’ I shuffled past her. Mum was dressed in her bank-teller’s uniform, her cinnamon-brown locks tied up in a bun. Some people mistake her for my older sister, probably because she was my age when she had me, seventeen. Her parents disowned her, because they’re Exclusive Brethren and she was flouting all the rules.

  She’s pretty boring now, though, working her guts out to pay for rent and food and clothes. Boring, but I love her, because she’s all I’ve got.

  Especially now.

  We were inching along East Coast Road in the rain, bumper to bumper, when Mum decided it was time to have a chat. I always know when we’re about to have a chat, because she always says the same thing.

  ‘Darling, can I ask you something?’

  Groan. The answer was no, but if I said that then she’d ask anyway. So I replied, ‘Sure,’ and stared out of the rain-blurry window.

  ‘Look,’ she said, as we came to an inexplicable halt in the middle of a roundabout, ‘I know these past couple of months have been really tough for you.’

  ‘Mmm.’ A boy in a green jacket sped past on his bike. He was wearing blue headphones and singing along to who-knows-who. It looked like Peter Schmidt. The Crazy German. But what’s the definition of crazy? What’s the definition of normal?

  ‘I think we need to plan a trip away,’ Mum said. ‘In the October school holidays.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Perhaps to the Coromandel? One of the ladies at the bank said her family has a bach that we can stay at for a few days.’

  ‘Maybe.’ We’d stopped at the traffic lights. In the lane beside us was a familiar black Ford Falcon, with a very familiar man with ash-blond hair behind the wheel. Crap, what were the chances? I averted my gaze and slid down in my seat. ‘I’ve got lots of study to do.’

  Had James Bacon seen me? I think he had. I could almost feel his eyes burning into me.

  I saw Mr Bacon kissing Sophie in his car.

  Well, I had to tell them.

  ‘So, take your books with you. But you should make sure you get some time out too. You can’t work all the time.’

  ‘You can talk.’

  ‘Exactly why we need a break.’ The lights went green and Mum stepped on the accelerator. Groaning, the car moved forward. James Bacon’s taillights were already disappearing around the corner, thank God.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to the Coromandel.’ Anything is better than hanging around down here, waiting for the cops to find Sophie A.

  I wonder if they’ll ever find her. I wonder when they’ll stop looking.

  Sixty-one days feels like a very long time to me.

  DAY 60

  Dream diary: It’s 2.13 a.m., and I’ve just had a nightmare. Mermaids were pursuing me, their seaweed manes knotting around my limbs. I kicked and kicked, but they dragged me down to the seabed, where they placed rocks in my palms, and a conch shell in my mouth. When I woke, my chest was so tight, it was as if I’d been holding my breath the whole time.

  You can only hold your breath for so long.

  DAY 59

  Today was one of the few good days I’ve had since Sophie A went missing. That’s probably because I didn’t have to go to school, which feels like a wolves’ den at the moment, with me as a lamb.

  No, it’s not only because I didn’t have to go to school. It’s also what I got to do instead of going to school. I think today has changed my life, in a good way.

  This morning I caught the bus into the city and walked to the hospital, where I waited in the foyer for the forensic pathologist. She was five minutes late for our 9 a.m. meeting, but that was OK. I sat on a bench in the foyer and watched people coming and going.

  People-watching has always fascinated me. You can tell so much about someone by how they dress and talk and move. I try to imagine what people are thinking. Mostly it will be boring stuff, I guess, like what they are having for lunch or what they should buy for their dad’s birthday present. But this was a hospital, so they could also be worrying about a sick relative. Perhaps their relative was having a heart transplant, or maybe they’d just died.

  I imagined what it would be like if I really could hear everyone’s thoughts. It would be pretty noisy. I’m glad no one can hear my thoughts. I can’t even cope with them myself, a lot of the time.

  ‘Sophie MacKenzie?’ A petite Indian woman in fitted black trousers and a magenta shirt halted in front of me.

  ‘Yes.’ I jumped up. ‘Doctor Symons, right?’

  She smiled, and extended her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Her skin was cool, and I caught a faint whiff of something foreign — formaldehyde, maybe?

  Cool. My stomach fluttering with excitement, I followed her through a maze of corridors and stairs to her office.

  ‘So, you’re interested in becoming a forensic pathologist?’ Doctor Symons beckoned me to a swivel chair in front of her desk.

  ‘Yes.’ My eyes travelled to the chunky textbooks on the shelves behind her, the microscope on her desk. ‘Thanks for letting me come along today.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Doctor Symons had a perfect smile. I hate the gap between my top front teeth, but Mum says there’s no way she can afford braces for me. ‘Before I take you into the lab, I thought I’d talk you through a presentation I usually give to the medical students.’ She angled a computer screen towards me. ‘Feel free to interrupt if you have any questions.’

  For the next thirty minutes, it was as though I was under a spell. The first thing Doctor Symons told me was that the role of a forensic pathologist was to determine the cause of death (like a gunshot wound), the mechanism of death (like bleeding out), the manner of death (such as homicide or accidental injury) and the time of death. Determining the time of death even includes examining insects on the body, and what stage they are in their life cycle, like with blowfly larvae. Not that I don’t know most of that already, but it was great to hear it from an expert.

  She told me about the stages of rigor mortis, ageing of bruises and patterns of blood splatter. There were some interesting pictures. I should have been grossed out, but my mind was electric with new, interesting connections.

  ‘Have you got any more questions?’ Doctor Symons asked, once she’d gone through about sixty slides.

  I said, ‘Yeah, are you doing any autopsies today?’

  Unfortunately there were no autopsies scheduled. Even if there had been, Doctor Symons said the rules prevented her from letting high-school students into the mortuary. She took me into the lab, though, and showed me some autopsy specimens. I got to see bits of liver and brain, and what they look like when they were cut into super-thin slices and mounted on a slide under a microscope.

  When I asked what the person had died of, Doctor Symons said she was a young woman who had been found dead in her apartment. They thought she’d probably had a cardiac arrhythmia, because they hadn’t found any evidence of foul play or any drugs in her bloodstream. I thought that was pretty sad, your heart just stopping one day. Then I thought about Sophie A, and suddenly it was really hard to breathe.

  Doctor Symons said, ‘Are you OK? Do you need some fresh air?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ Part of me wanted to tell her about Sophie A, who she probably knew about from all the media coverage, but another part of me wanted to be incognito for the day. I’ve spent half my life being part of the Trio of Sophies. Today, just for one day, I wanted to be Sophie without an M, the only Sophie.

  Next Doctor Symons said she needed to go and do some reporting, which sounded exciting, but she said it was just paperwork. I hung out with one of the lab scientists for the rest of the morning. Her name was Gladys, and she had blue hair and glasses to match. Gladys showed me an amputated leg soaking in a white container filled with formaldehyde. It was obviously an adult’s because it was longer than mine, and the skin was very smooth and grey-white. I must have gone a funny colour, because Gladys said maybe I should go for an early lunch.