One of Us is Missing

by B. M. Carroll

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

There's no such thing as safety in numbers ...
Rachel and Rory Sullivan decide to celebrate making it through a difficult year by taking their teenagers, Emmet and Bridie, to their first ever stadium concert. By the end of the night, one of the four has vanished without a trace.
As the police investigation intensifies, suspicion is cast on the remaining family members. Everyone has been deceiving one another, but who is to blame for what went wrong? The passing of each hour amplifies their terror that life will never be the same again.
One of Us is Missing is a dark domestic thriller about the dangers lurking right in plain sight.

Release date: April 30, 2024

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 368

Sample

Rachel

The plan was to leave home at four, reaching the city around five. Rachel had booked an inexpensive restaurant in Surry Hills, leaving plenty of time for the walk to Allianz Stadium and all the queues. The first support band was due on stage at seven thirty and the kids wanted to secure a good spot on the field. Now, Rachel was wondering if they should forget the meal. Allow Sean one less hour on his own, one less hour in which to get up to no good.

‘We just have to trust that he’ll behave himself,’ Rory said firmly. ‘We’ve all been looking forward to this – it’s our reward for a shitty year.’

‘A shitty year’ was a colossal understatement.

‘I’ll put the hard word on him before we leave,’ her husband promised, then shook his head in annoyance. ‘Fuck’s sake, it’s like having another kid in the house.’

Another kid would be nowhere near as much trouble.

The problem was that Sean was too used to being told off by Rory; you could practically see his eyes glazing over as he tuned out. The brothers were five years apart in age, a hundred years in maturity. A warning from Rachel was more likely to hit home.

‘No, I’ll talk to him,’ she sighed.

A pause before Rory nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but closed his mouth, swallowing back the words.

He disappeared into the ensuite, and within moments Rachel could hear the hiss of running water. She sat on the bed and tried to regain her enthusiasm for the evening ahead. Her brother-in-law was only one of her problems. She was still rattled after the confrontation with Nico this morning. The shock of seeing him there, in the supermarket carpark. The realisation that he had tailed her all the way from home. She desperately wanted to confide in someone, seek advice on what best to do. Hold her nerve or go to the police?

The other looming problem was yesterday’s conversation with Dr Petrakis. There was an anomaly in her recent blood results: her platelets, to be more precise. Apparently, it could mean something or nothing. For the sake of tonight, Rachel decided, it meant nothing.

She braced herself before going downstairs. She found Sean in the living room, legs apart as he slouched on the couch. Even the manner in which he sat was uncouth, and deeply irritating. He was staring at his phone with the intensity of a teenager.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was deliver a ‘please be good’ lecture to an adult. ‘Hey, Sean. I’m putting the kettle on. Want a cuppa?’

She always tried to be pleasant, outwardly kind and patient, even when she was screaming inside.

~

‘Where’s Emmet?’ Bridie asked, from the kitchen doorway. ‘Is he ready?’

Rachel, sipping her tea and recovering from the awkward conversation with Sean, inwardly gasped at her daughter’s appearance. The dramatic eye make-up. Her barely-there top, which revealed the shape of her breasts and her flat stomach. With the make-up and clothes, her fifteen-year-old girl could pass for twenty.

‘He went to the park to catch up with the boys,’ she replied, masking her reaction. ‘We’re meeting him at the station.’

‘Oh. Are the boys catching the same train as us?’

‘Possibly,’ Rachel said, watching her closely. ‘Are you okay with that?’

‘Course I am. It’s ancient history, Mum.’

Ancient history? A couple of months, if that. But Rachel believed in second chances, and Emmet was becoming isolated without his friend group. She wasn’t thrilled about him hanging out in the park – she’d put money on the fact that there was alcohol involved – but he could have some leeway given this morning’s disappointment.

‘Bridie, you’ve got goosepimples on your arms. There’s a cold change forecast for later. I’m not sure about that skimpy top.’

November in Sydney was a smorgasbord of extremes: intense heat, dramatic storms and the occasional plunge into wintery conditions to keep everyone on their toes.

‘I’m bringing a jumper, Mum.’

‘Which one?’

‘My black hoodie.’

‘I’ll grab one for Emmet, too,’ Rachel decided.

She gulped the last of her tea, rinsed the cup out and ran upstairs to her son’s bedroom. She was pleased to see that his bed was roughly made, and there were no clothes on the floor. The only mess was contained to his desk, a jumble of art supplies and loose sheets of drawing paper. In many respects, Emmet defied the stereotype of a teenage boy.

Rachel chose a jumper from the wardrobe, and came face to face with Rory as she re-emerged onto the landing. Her husband was wearing a blue linen shirt and navy jeans: his good clothes. His curly dark hair was damp from the shower, his tanned face showing an underlying haggardness from the strain of the last year.

‘All good with Sean?’

‘Yeah. I asked him nicely not to burn the house down and not to invite anyone around.’

Rory grimaced and shook his head. ‘Christ, Rach. How has it come to this?’

Her husband’s vitality was being sapped by his brother’s inability to conduct a self-sufficient adult life. Her own vitality was just as depleted, if not more so. They used to see themselves as indestructible. Rachel and Rory. Rory and Rachel. R & R, as their friends and family often called them.

Christ, Rach. How has it come to this?

Later that night she would realise that Rory’s question encompassed much more than the problems with his brother.

~

Cronulla Station was a ten-minute downhill walk. Clouds were rolling in from the ocean and the temperature had already dropped a few degrees. It was still on the hot side, though. Perspiration prickled along Rachel’s scalp and underarms. She already wanted to rip off her headscarf.

She’d booked the concert tickets back in May, on the day she finished the chemotherapy phase of her treatment. The chemicals had been swirling in her bloodstream, all their nasty side effects in full flow: nausea, fatigue and a pervasive sense of dread that seemed to have taken root at a cellular level and divided and multiplied alongside the cancer. On coming home from the hospital, she’d had to compose herself before opening the front door. A pause before forcing her shoulders up and back, and pinning a smile in place: her family needed to believe it was almost over – only four weeks of radiation therapy left to endure – even more than she did.

Rory had put a lasagne in the oven and an expensive bottle of champagne on ice. For once, Emmet had not been closed off in his bedroom and he’d given her a one-armed hug: a lavish display of affection, in his terms. Bridie had decorated the table with flowers and candles, and something about the table setting – maybe the memory of Bridie when she was little and obsessed with tea parties – immediately threatened Rachel’s show of positivity. Her family gathered around her, and she accepted their kisses and affirmations and a token glass of the champagne. Then they sat down together and ate – or, in Rachel’s case, tried to eat. She broke off tiny morsels with her fork, placed them in her mouth, waited for the food to dissolve before attempting to swallow.

‘Coldplay tickets went on sale this afternoon,’ Rory said, in between oversized mouthfuls. ‘Forgot to set a reminder on my phone. Sorry, love. Probably too late now.’

Rachel shrugged. ‘Never mind. Bet they sold out within minutes.’

She and Rory had talked about the concert, how it would give them something tangible to look forward to. Not to mention a trip down memory lane: those songs had been the soundtrack to their courtship. But tens of thousands of others were Coldplay fans too, people undistracted by serious illness, incapacitating side effects and the sheer effort of faking that everything was okay. Fans who would’ve waited, fingers poised over keyboards and phone screens, for the tickets to go on sale.

By some extraordinary miracle, when Rachel eventually logged on to the ticketing website after dinner, there was a handful of available tickets: two platinum seats at an eye-watering cost, and a few general admission at a more reasonable price.

Then the kids surprised her by saying they wanted to come, too. What was this? A genuine love of Coldplay that had gone unprofessed? More likely the manifestation of their insecurity, and the naive belief that the future could be guaranteed by the act of booking distant events. If only.

‘Don’t look so shocked, Mum,’ Bridie said. ‘You’ve subjected us to your music for years … some of it resonated, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, she means we were brainwashed,’ Emmet added drily. ‘We can take the field tickets, Mum. We’re old enough.’

Rory met her eyes from across the room. Splitting up wasn’t ideal, but she doubted she’d have the stamina to stand in the field for the duration. And the kids would prefer the atmosphere in the mosh pit; seats were for oldies.

A timer on the booking screen warned that she had two minutes and thirty seconds remaining to complete the transaction.

‘How much are the platinum ones, Rach?’ Rory asked.

‘Three hundred and fifty.’ She winced. After extended leave from work to accommodate surgery, chemo and radiation, their finances were as depleted as her energy levels. On the other hand, if the last six months had taught them anything, it was that life was for living.

Rory seemed to have come to the same conclusion. ‘Just do it. We’ll work out the money later.’

At the time, those tickets had felt like a stake in the future. Now here she was, slap-bang in a future that was nothing like she’d imagined. Worried about her pathology results and what they signified. Worried about leaving her chronically unreliable brother-in-law alone in their house. Worried about Nico and what he might do next.

Don’t worry so much. Enjoy this night, this special time with your husband and kids. Forget Sean. Forget Nico. Forget about your stupid platelets.

Emmet

One positive thing he could say about the boys was that they never overanalysed or delved too deeply into things.

Danny punched him on the arm. ‘Sullivaaaaan … Where the fuck have you been?’

Alex shoved a beer in his face. ‘Five bucks. Mates’ rates.’

‘Looking sharp, Sullivan,’ Fitz drawled. ‘Might hook up with some MILFs tonight.’

Fitz had scored last-minute tickets through his uncle, who couldn’t attend for some reason. Danny had declared his disinterest and the extra ticket had been sold, uncontested, to Alex. Now Danny was hiding his regret with scathing remarks.

‘Yeah, get ready to be the youngest there. Coldplay are totally past it.’

‘Coldplay are classic,’ Alex insisted. ‘You’re missing out, bro.’

Emmet took a long glug of beer and allowed the bickering and chatter to wash over him. He’d missed his friends these last few months. He’d missed the banter, the company, the security they offered. But he’d changed too much to just slot back in. Yeah, he was here, talking to them and all, but he didn’t quite fit. And he hadn’t entirely forgiven them either, if he were honest.

‘That’s a sick tattoo,’ Fitz said, his eyes focusing in on Emmet’s arm.

Danny, tactile as ever, pulled up the sleeve of Emmet’s T-shirt for closer examination. ‘Sick,’ he agreed.

The tattoo, a Celtic braid-like pattern encircling his upper arm, was only a week old. Emmet took an even longer glug of beer, feigning nonchalance. The alcohol and peer approval oozed into his bloodstream, diluting the self-hatred and unlocking his voice.

‘Yeah, Courtney did it for me. She’s a complete bitch but really good at her job, you know? She scowled the whole time she was doing it. Half expected her to stab the needle in my eye.’

As they all laughed, it occurred to Emmet that his fractious relationship with Courtney put him on another level. Courtney was a surly work colleague, which was a completely different species to a surly schoolkid. He suddenly felt older and more worldly than the boys. And they seemed to be hanging on his every word, which was both weird and validating.

He opened a second beer, then blurted out that he’d failed his driving test that morning. ‘Yeah, I had a female assessor. She was like a statue in the passenger seat, barely saying a word, other than telling me what turn to take. The less she said, the more freaked out I got.’ Laughing about it felt a little better. At the time he’d felt like crying. ‘Afterwards she said I failed for lots of small reasons … What the fuck?’

He decided not to tell the boys that he’d seen Kiara Singh at the test centre. Fitz would say something lewd or derogatory and he didn’t want to go there. Maybe, when he was drunk and feeling courageous enough, he’d shoot Kiara a message and ask how her test had gone.

He guzzled a third beer, then a fourth. The park was full of kids with bikes and balls: standard Saturday afternoon activities. Fitz went to return a stray football and air-kicked, which they all found uproariously funny. A mother gave them a long suspicious stare, before steering her toddler in another direction. Emmet gazed at the clouds scudding across the sky. The world was moving, always moving: there was profound meaning in that, but he couldn’t quite pin it down.

He was scuttered, a term his dad often used when referring to Sean. His uncle had turned up with two mangy rucksacks on Wednesday night, evicted from his lodgings. It was plain to see that Sean was barely holding it together. Last night he fell up the stairs on his way to bed, swearing and then laughing hysterically. Sean’s Irish accent was stronger than Rory’s, almost incoherent when he was drunk.

Jayzus. The steps came up to meet me. BANG! I’m okay. I’m okay. Don’t worry a bit. My head is as hard as stone. Ha ha.

The night before, he’d accidentally left the grill on and nearly started a house fire.

Sorry. Christ, Emmet, can you turn off that smoke alarm? It’s splitting my head open. Stop glaring at me, Rach. I didn’t do it on purpose.

Money was always a problem with Sean. People who owed him money. People he owed money to.

Just need a few weeks to get meself sorted out. Find a housemate who isn’t going to fuckin’ fleece me. I’m shit sick of renting.

Emmet’s parents were afraid that he’d turn out like his uncle: a comprehensive failure. He was beginning to realise that some people – for some grossly unfair reason – attracted failure. That sometimes you failed even when you were trying hard not to. He could understand why his parents were worried about him, he really could, because everything he touched seemed to go to shit.

His eyes began to droop. A combination of alcohol, too much sun and all the energy he’d used up hating himself.

Danny thumped his arm. ‘Sullivaaan … wake up, you stupid fucker.’

Emmet looked at Danny blearily. His friend was pressing another beer into his hand; he grasped it, raised it to his lips, glugged it, all on reflex. Alex turned up the music on his phone, and they all began to shout-sing the lyrics. Nobody said it was easy: too fucking true. Emmet found a second wind, singing louder than the others, even though he couldn’t sing for shit.

They weren’t so bad, the boys. They were all he had. He felt older than them, wiser, but also inferior in all the same old ways.

Again, there was profound meaning in that, but he was fucked if he could analyse it any further.

Rory

‘Where is he?’ Bridie asked, flicking her hair over her shoulder, her eyes, with their spiky mascara-coated lashes, darting around in search of her brother.

The train station was as busy as Rory had ever seen it. Concert crowd mingling with beach crowd. A group of tipsy women in their twenties who were shrieking with laughter; an older couple with matching short silver hair; a man with a black cap and dark clothes, who seemed to be staring in their direction. For a moment, Rory thought the man was eyeing up Bridie, but then his gaze veered to Rachel. Harmless people-watching or something more sinister?

‘Be patient, Bridie,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s only just quarter past.’

As they stood there waiting, Rory became aware of the thump of his heart, and a rising sense of dread and disorientation. This sultry version of his teenage daughter; his wife, who he didn’t know anymore; the pressing, unpredictable crowd. He focused on Rachel’s face, the crease above her nose that appeared whenever she was worried, the headscarf that was causing perspiration to bead on her skin. She didn’t even notice that he was staring. She was jumpy, constantly looking around her. Yes, they were expecting Emmet any minute, but she’d been like this on the walk down the hill, looking over her shoulder, as though expecting someone to materialise out of nowhere.

To be fair, Rory was jumpy and watchful, too. It had just occurred to him that the noisy, heaving crowd provided the perfect camouflage. Was it possible they were being followed? Should he have confided in Rachel about the trouble he’d got himself into? He clenched his hands before jamming them into his pockets. So many secrets for a couple who had once told each other everything. So many lies for two people who claimed to value the truth.

‘Here he is,’ Rachel said, and Rory followed the direction of his wife’s gaze.

Their gangly son was half-running, half-walking, flanked by Alex and Fitz. The boys were laughing about something, their grins visible from a mile off. Rory was relieved to see Emmet so obviously happy. After the driving test this morning, there’d been every chance he’d refuse to go to the concert and spiral into self-loathing. Emmet took failure badly, always had. As a child, he would berate himself endlessly if he broke a toy or dropped his Lego or did poorly in a spelling test. But here he was, on time and in good spirits, hopefully not entirely due to alcohol.

‘Hey, guys, Fitz and Alex are going to catch the train with us. Okay?’

Rory looked at Rachel. Youth and hormones had led to some highly inappropriate remarks about Bridie a few weeks ago. Emmet was really asking if they were comfortable with Fitz being accepted back into the fold.

‘Of course,’ Bridie interjected, before either Rory or Rachel could answer. Her cheeks were noticeably pink. Her eyelashes, with their layers of mascara, were actually fluttering.

God almighty. Both boys were moderately good-looking but too old for Bridie. Rory had known Fitz since he was a skinny, scabby-kneed ten-year-old. He was prepared to forgive him for making those lewd comments, but that didn’t mean Bridie should: he expected his daughter to have higher standards than that.

Rachel had also registered Bridie’s flirtatious manner. She sucked in a deep breath, obviously trying to regain her equilibrium.

‘Okay, we’re all here. We’re on time. We’re going to have a fabulous night.’ There was more determination in Rachel’s voice than excitement.

~

Rachel was quiet on the train, eyes glued to her phone. She’d wanted this family outing, but wasn’t fully present. Rory could hardly criticise. His thoughts were veering all over the place, unable to stick to the here and now. He needed to go somewhere quiet, somewhere he could think, figure out what the hell to do. Yet here he was: on a crowded, noisy train on his way to an ear-blasting concert. He told himself there would be time to think afterwards.

Enjoy this. Nothing might be the same tomorrow.

The kids were sitting across the aisle, a couple of rows back. Rory checked on them intermittently, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Emmet looks like he’s fighting sleep,’ he murmured, somewhat unnecessarily: the noise in the carriage ensured he couldn’t be overheard.

Rachel looked up from her phone. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they were up to at the park.’

Their son was three months shy of eighteen. They were entering a new phase with him, a phase where they would need to loosen the reins a little. In a few months Emmet would be able to go to pubs legally; there would be no need to drink in parks, with all the inherent risks. But pubs and clubs were risky places, too. Being exposed to drinking culture, bar fights and, inevitably, drugs.

This line of thought led automatically to Sean, who might already be up to God knows what. Helping himself to cash from the kids’ bedrooms to fund a visit to the bottle shop. Inviting his deadbeat friends around to enjoy the free house. Rory had spoken to his mother and Fiona, his oldest sibling, looking for advice. Everyone back in Ireland was genuinely concerned, but the truth was unavoidable. While Sean lived in this country, it was ultimately Rory’s responsibility to house him, finance him, help him back on his feet.

Suddenly, quite desperately, Rory wanted to apply the brakes. Keep Emmet at the age he was now. Bridie, too. Keep them away from alcohol, drugs, bad relationships. Protect their innocence, their future happiness. More than anything, keep them safe.

Rachel put her phone down and reached for his hand, her slim fingers interlacing with his. Once again, he found himself studying his wife, taking in her features afresh. Her liquid brown eyes. Her clear pale skin, which the kids had inherited. He’d first set eyes on her in P.J. O’Brien’s, a popular Irish pub in the city centre. He’d only been in the country a couple of weeks; she was a regular, along with her friend, Amy. Rachel had an understated girl-next-door prettiness; Amy was blonde, more vivacious in looks and personality. Just thinking about Amy made him feel a rush of emotions he didn’t want to be feeling while holding his wife’s hand.

His eyes zoned in on the people in the overfull carriage, many of whom were standing. The same group of shrieking women from the platform, who were going to either burn out early or last long into the night. The man he’d noticed earlier, with the dark clothes and the cap low on his head. At least he thought it was the same man: around the carriage there were plenty of others wearing caps and dark clothes. Was it just his imagination or was the man sneaking glances in their direction? Maybe it was Rachel’s headscarf. People stared without intending to.

Rachel was still holding his hand, which was both reassuring and confounding.

Standing at the top of the carriage was a bald man in his fifties with heavily tattooed arms and an intimidating stance. He looked like a hit man, Rory thought. Sitting directly across the aisle, an androgynous individual wore an oversized jumper that had to be unbearable in the heat. Suspicious, perhaps.

Rory didn’t exactly know what or whom he was looking for. All he knew was that the danger felt real and very immediate.

Bridie

‘Wake up, idiot,’ Bridie hissed, giving Emmet a discreet nudge.

Her brother straightened, tried to blink away the desire to sleep. They were facing Alex and Fitz in a seat of four. Their parents were further up, across the aisle, hopefully unaware that Emmet was struggling to keep his eyes open.

‘Here, have some of my water.’ She passed him her bottle.

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled and took several long gulps. ‘Damn, I’m so thirsty.’

‘That’s because alcohol is a diuretic and dehydrates you.’ Bridie heard her sanctimonious tone and immediately apologised. ‘Sorry, I sound like Miss Wallace.’ Miss Wallace was one of the PE teachers at school, whose remit included alcohol, drug and road safety.

Alex, who was diagonally across from her, didn’t look very alert either. Glazed eyes, head lolling to one side. Fitz was the only one of the three who seemed to be able to handle his drink. His face was slightly flushed but his brown eyes were watchful, bouncing from Emmet to Bridie.

Her phone buzzed. Another text from Amy, her godmother; she had already sent several this afternoon.

You guys on your way? Send me a pic.

Bridie had already sent a photo, from her bedroom as she was getting ready. Amy could be a bit intense, treating her like the daughter she’d never had. Bridie nudged Emmet awake again, and took a selfie of them both.

Amy’s reply came instantly. Ooh lovely. Where’s Mum and Dad?

One of Amy’s earlier messages had implied that Bridie’s parents were having a difficult time. Bridie had assumed it was because of Uncle Sean coming to stay. Now, she began to second-guess herself, which was one of her specialities along with visualising worst-case scenarios. Was something more serious going on with Mum and Dad? Mum’s cancer returning? Or divorce? At school she regularly heard about parents splitting up. It was nearly always out of the blue.

They’re sitting a few rows ahead. The train is packed, she eventually typed, shaking off the negative thoughts.

Emmet guzzled some more water and promptly closed his eyes: it was impossible to keep him awake. Her phoned buzzed yet again.

Fitzboy_Fit: Want a drink from my water bottle?

Bridie looked up from her phone, startled, thrilled. Fitz was staring at her in an open challenge. Emmet and Alex were oblivious, in la-la land.

BridieSull: Your water bottle doesn’t have water in it, does it?

Fitzboy_Fit: Nope.

BridieSull: What’s in it? Vodka? Bourbon? Some deadly mix?

If there was one thing she had learned from those PE lessons, it was to at least determine what it was you were drinking.

Fitzboy_Fit: Vodka with a minuscule dash of lemonade.

Bridie thought about it for a few moments, weighed up the risks and benefits. Risks: getting caught, the vodka making her feel sick. Benefits? Well, she had Fitz’s full attention for however long this went on. She was going to have her first drink at some point, so why not now? And, frankly, she was sick of being a good girl.

She nodded, and he reached across to hand her the bottle. Their fingers brushed and Bridie felt the response reverberating through her whole body. After double-checking that both Emmet and Alex were still asleep and her parents were not looking her way, she put the bottle to her lips, sipping cautiously. The vodka was both strong and surprisingly tasteless: it left a feeling of heat in her throat, and a sense of recklessness deep in the pit of her stomach.

Smiling, she passed the bottle back to Fitz. He swigged, then his gaze immediately dropped to her mouth. She knew what he was thinking: that his lips had been where hers were only moments before. Another response jolted through her body.

Bridie imagined what her friend Lily would say if she were here. The old Lily would be aghast: underage drinking, flirting with an older boy, taking crazy risks in a public place, with her parents just metres away. But the new Lily had leapfrogged past these milestones: the alcohol experimentation, relationships with boys, and other activities that Bridie could only guess at.

Fitz passed the bottle back and she took another, bigger, sip. They locked eyes for what felt like a long time. He really had the most gorgeous brown eyes, which were somehow both warm and daring. If she were describing him in a narrative, she would call his hair dirty blond, and she would portray the crisp clean look of his white cotton T-shirt, and his grey jeans with rips in the knees.

Bridie took two more sips from the bottle before returning it with a decisive shake of her head. She wasn’t stupid. Each sip was probably close to a standard drink; she’d been paying attention in those PE lessons. Besides, she wanted Fitz to see that she had a backbone, that she was mature enough to say no when she wanted to, that she could be his equal.

Emmet rallied as the train neared Central Station; Alex was still dead to the world. He. . .