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

and ways to convey her thoughts. But Jerome had backed her into a corner with his questions, forcing her defences up. She was not ready to share her history with anyone.
    Bringing up a web browser on the laptop screen, she wondered if she would ever be ready. Because that would mean telling the truth, and the truth was something she was yet to come to terms with.
    For now, she needed distraction, and Alina Engel was it. Typing the woman’s name into a search engine, she scanned through the first page of results. There were various social media accounts in German for women sharing the same name, but none of the profile pictures resembled Alina—which was strange because just about everyone was on Facebook these days. It had been months since Emily had dared to log on to her account. She wondered what she would find if she did. That was the thing about social media—cruel words could be said to someone’s face and eventually most would fade, but type them out and post them on the web, and they remained forever; a bloodstain that could not be washed out.
    Emily scrolled through a few more pages, finding only disappointment. She erased Alina’s name from the search engine and typed more words. Seconds later, she scanned through the pages of a missing persons website.
    Hundreds of thousands of people were reported missing each year, she read. Most were tracked down or reappeared again days or weeks later, while others simply vanished. It was unnerving to think about. These days, every corner of every town and city, every store and restaurant, every public building, every station was being watched by CCTV. All of those cameras capturing each person's action, no matter how small, and yet there were those who simply vanished like drops of rain into the ether. All that remained of them were remnants. Sheets pulled back on unmade beds. Strands of hair wrapped around the teeth of combs. Their smell still clinging to clothes that hung like ghosts in darkened wardrobes. Only pictures could prove they were once truly alive, that they were once present. Pictures and bags of clothes left behind on kitchen floors.
    Some chose to leave or had no choice remaining, while others, who were less sound of mind, simply wandered and became lost. Then, there were those who had been taken against their will. Almost always women or children, most ended up on a mortician's slab, while the remainder were never seen again.
    Emily stared at her laptop screen and the faces of the disappeared stared back. Young faces. Old faces. Haunted faces. Happy faces. There were messages from their loved ones, pleading for them to return home. There were appeals to the public to come forward with information. Anguish poured from her screen like a sea of tears, and rising from its depths came Phillip. He wasn't missing—everyone knew where he could be found now—but like the disappeared, he would never be seen again. Like the disappeared, all that was left were remnants.
    Often, Emily closed her eyes and imagined what Phillip had left behind. A bedroom, untouched since that day, with piles of laundry littering the floor and posters of wrestlers tacked to the walls. A video game controller, sitting on the arm of the chair, where no one dared to sit for fear of knocking it from its final resting place. His toothbrush, still in the glass on the bathroom shelf. His coat still hanging on the back of the door.
    Tears burned Emily's eyes. How long would this guilt last? The answer to that question was too cruel to contemplate, and yet it taunted her morning and night.
    Emily wiped her eyes, then typed Alina's name into the website’s search engine. The faces of the disappeared faded into white and were replaced with the words: NO RESULTS FOUND. Was it true then? Had Alina returned to Germany where she now led a happier, safer life? Thousands of people went missing every day. Did that mean every one of their cases remained open? Did it mean every one of them was even