Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) by Malcolm Richards Page A

messages, no voicemail. Which was probably for the best.
    Jerome looked at her, waiting for an answer. To avoid giving him one, she relayed both stories told to her by Bill the handyman and Harriet Golding.
    “Ring any bells?” she asked him when she was done.
    “It’s hard to say. There were so many fights they all kind of rolled into one after a while.”
    “But August the twenty-fourth and the days leading up to it? Smashing a door lock surely would have made some noise.”
    Jerome moved across the room and stared up at the perpendicular grids of light illuminating the windows of the opposite building. Tired from the working day, people were slipping into their evening routines. A shirtless man worked out on his living room floor, performing sets of crunches and push ups. Down a floor and to the left, a woman sat in an armchair reading the evening newspaper, while another prepared dinner in the kitchen.
    “There’s something relaxing about watching other people's lives, don’t you think? It’s the repetitiveness of it all. The routines, the structure.”
    Emily thought about it, but instead of feeling relaxed, she felt a sudden frustration. “If only people had been paying more attention to Alina’s life.”
    Jerome turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Alina was in an abusive relationship. Everyone knew about it and yet no one lifted a finger to help. Now she’s missing.”
    “Presumed missing,” Jerome corrected her. “And I think you’re being a little unfair. People don’t like to pry. I mean, I didn’t even really know the woman. Where were her friends and family?”
    “Maybe she didn’t have any. It’s always the same tired story. Shout fire and everyone comes running. Shout rape or domestic violence and everybody closes their curtains, pretends they’re not home.”
    Over by the window, Jerome had grown quite still.
    “Not everyone is like that,” he said. “Yesterday you called and I answered.”
    “I know that, and I’m grateful. I just don’t understand why, if people heard Karl hitting Alina, they didn’t call the police.”
    “Maybe they did. You have no idea of who did what because you weren’t here. And I think you’re being very presumptuous.”
    Emily stood up from the computer. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “Why does it matter to you so much anyway?” Jerome grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “You didn’t even know her.”
    “What if I’m right?” Emily said. “What if Alina really is missing and no one is doing anything about it? What if she needs help right at this minute? If she was your sister, or your mother, wouldn’t you want to know that she was all right? That she was alive?”
    Jerome shook his head. “You know I came up here to do you another favour, not to be accused of being a bystander watching a car crash.”
    He crossed the room then stopped, spying the bizarre portrait lying face up on the sofa. The fingers of Emily’s right hand scrabbled over the top of her left, her nails grazing the surface of her skin.
    “This isn’t how you make friends,” Jerome said. “I’ve been trying to get to know you but you’ve avoided every question I’ve asked. You keep your phone hidden in a drawer. I haven’t seen a single photograph of anyone anywhere in your apartment. Exactly who is it that’s closing their curtains and pretending they’re not home? Because it’s certainly not me.”
    There was a moment of terrible, awkward silence. Then Jerome lowered his head and stalked out of the apartment.
    Emily remained where she was, growing as still as stagnant water. It had not been her intention to accuse Jerome of anything, but he had heard Karl and Alina fighting on many occasions. And so had Harriet. Why had neither of them called the police?
    Moving over to the laptop, she sat down, a knot of guilt pressing on her sternum. Even if what she had said was true, and she believed that it was, there were subtler words