Page 23 of Stolen

twelve hours missing

chapter 12

alex

I keep trying to explain my daughter’s fear of the sea to Lieutenant Bates, but no one will listen to me.

‘She’d never go near the ocean,’ I say, again and again.

Marc’s father shows us the section of shoreline where he discovered Lottie’s shoe floating at the water’s edge. It’s clear the police want this to be a drowning rather than an abduction. Florida is a tourist hotspot, after all: its economy depends on its reputation for fun-filled, family-friendly vacations. It took years for Praia da Luz to recover from the damage to its image caused by the McCann case. A drowning would be a tragedy, yes, but only for me.

There are searchlights all along the beach now, rendering it as bright as day. Forensic integrity matters less than locating Lottie but, apart from that single pink shoe, nothing else is found.

I know Bates wants me to keep out of their way and stay at the hotel, but I can’t sit still. As dawn breaks, Zealy, Marc and I resume our search together, covering every inch of the tiny barrier island.

In addition to the main hotel, the complex also comprises a dozen separate holiday villas and staff accommodation, and a nine-hole golf course. We jump over low walls and rakethrough scrubby undergrowth, looking in drains and ditches, and beneath the bridge that connects the island to St Pete Beach. It’s eerily quiet: most of the other wedding guests have gone to bed, and the police searchers have moved to the mainland. We’re completely alone. It feels as if no one is looking for Lottie. Just me, and my two dearest friends.

Someone suddenly calls my name from the bridge. I glance up and find myself staring at a man holding a long-lensed camera.

‘Fuck off!’ Zealy yells.

I put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Don’t. We may need the press.’

Lieutenant Bates is waiting for me when we return to the hotel. ‘We want you to speak to the media,’ she says, with perfect timing.

We are here already: the point she told me just a few hours ago she didn’t want to reach. Any last crumb of hope that this is a false alarm, a near miss, vanishes.

Bates correctly interprets my silence as acquiescence. I would stand on my head and spit pound coins if I thought it would bring Lottie home.

‘We’ve spoken to the local networks,’ Bates says. ‘We’ll do the appeal at six tonight, to catch their evening shows. Don’t worry about what you’re gonna say. We’ll help you with that.’

‘She’s in no state to face the media,’ Marc says.

‘I know it’s tough, but the sooner we get this story out there, the better.’

‘You don’t need Alex for that.’

‘An appeal from the mother always gets traction,’ Bates says.

We both know what she really means. The media don’t just want a photograph, or a stiff-necked detective appealing for information. That’s not going to get them the clicks and likes and shares and tweets they’re after. They want tears and pain. They wantme.

‘What are you going to do in the meantime?’ Zealy demands.

‘I promise you, we’re throwing everything at this,’ Bates says. ‘We’ve got a lot of people out there looking for her. We’re pulling CCTV from tolls and gas stations. And I’ve got a team putting a timeline of the reception together: where everyone was during the evening, and when. It’ll help us figure who could have seen something. Folks oftentimes don’t realise the significance till later.’

‘Everyone was taking photos,’ Zealy says. ‘She’s bound to be in quite a few of them, at least in the background. They’ll be time-stamped—’

‘We’ve already asked everyone to give us what they got,’ Bates says. ‘Trust me, Zealy, we’re on it.’

Her phone buzzes and she mouths an apology, then steps away out of earshot.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, exhausted and frightened beyond reckoning. Lottie’s been missing all night. I’m so tired I can barely stand, and yet I’m consumed with a restlessness I can’t seem to control. I feel very cold, and my hands keep twitching, a physical manifestation of my urge to search.

I realise I can’t put off calling my parents any longer. This will shatter their world. They adore Lottie; she’s their only grandchild and the light of their lives. Ever since Luca died, I’ve taken her home to them most weekends. I dread to think what this news will do to them. But I have to tell them before they find out from someone else.

Just saying the words out loud to Mum and Dad makes the nightmare real.

When Mum starts to sob, I break down completely, and have to hand the phone to Zealy.