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And I won’t stop until I’ve found her.
With a part of last night playing on repeat, I decide to head back to the club, a knot that something isn’t quite right tightening in my gut as I pull away from the curb.
My head hums with the deep bass line of the club. A lifetime ago, this would have been my sanctuary - it was my sanctuary. Inside, I move through the throng of bodies, a plan solidifying in my mind.
As I move, I show random people her picture that I’d pulled from her social media. People look, curious, indifferent, unsure, but I don’t see a single hint of recognition.
“Have you seen her?” plays on repeat on my lips, loud to be heard over the music.
I’m met with head shakes and shrugs. No nods. And frustration builds up in me with every rejection. Someone here knows her; I know it.More than one person must have seen her here, so there’s no way I won’t find someone else.
But as I continue showing Emma's picture to anyone who will look, I begin to worry that maybe the one person had mistaken her for someone else. But they’d called her Riley... Emma’s middle name. As I continue, so do the same responses—blank stares, head shakes, or indifference. No one has seen her. No one knows anything.
But I refuse to give up; someone has to know. Emma is out there somewhere, and I’m going to find her.
I retreat to the bar for a moment, locking eyes with the morning bartender, Sarah. She smiles, gesturing to ask if I want my usual. I nod, sitting on a stool and placing my phone on the counter.
“Hey,” a passing person says, glancing at my phone. I glance up at the tall man with oddly kind eyes. “Are you looking for her?” he asks, searching my features.
“Yeah,” I say, refusing to hope as the bartender slides my drink into my hand.
“Okay.” With that, he walks off, quickly swallowed up by the crowd. I watch him go, wondering what the hell just happened.
I down my drink, hoping the booze will take the edge off the stress crushing my chest like an anvil. “Who was that guy?” I ask Sarah.
“I don’t know his name,” she says. “Do you want another?”
I nod. Might as well drink to my problems.
She refills my glass as I continue scanning for the tall man who’d asked me if I was looking for Emma.
“I hope you find her,” Sarah says. “I’ll keep an eye out for her. Is your number still the same?”
I nod, remembering my past with Sarah. We’d been casual for a while, but that was something I didn’t want to start back up. So, I hope she’ll only call if she knows something about Emma’s whereabouts.
I want to check in with Lila and see how she's managing, but I hate the thought of telling her I don't know anything. Or giving her false hope that somebody seemed to have recognized her sister. Finishing my drink, I nod at Sarah and prepare to continue working through the crowd in hopes someone has seen her.
With hundreds of bodies moving on the dance floor, some leaving, some coming, I have my work cut out for me. As I approach someone, I see something out of the corner of my eyes. A familiar flicker of movement, a silhouette that matches Emma's.
But by the time I turn my head, the figure is gone.
Maybe I am starting to see ghosts. I don't think I am tired enough to start hallucinating. I'm in my thirties, but I can still party all night and head to work the next morning.
A hand claps down on my shoulder, and I turn to see Ben, an old acquaintance whose reputation for trouble is almost as well-known as mine used to be. I ignore him and scan the crowd, thrusting Emma's picture in the faces of dancers, only to receive the same responses.
“Fredrick, man, lighten up!” I continue to ignore him, my attention focused on finding Emma.
“Come on, got a couple of girls who'd love to meet you.” He digs his elbow into my ribs with a wicked smile.
“Not interested,” I say, turning away from him.
He lets out a loud, barking laugh that startles some of the people around us into looking at his direction. “Let me guess, some woman neutered you. Is it this one?” he asks, looking at Emma’s picture, then at my face. “Damn, bro, you trying to get thrown in jail or something?” He makes a pelvic thrusting motion that leaves me wanting to hurt him.
As if he has no sense of self-preservation, he continues. “She’s hot, but check her driver’s license and make sure she’s legal.”
“Back off,” I say, the warning low and threatening.
He laughs, clearly not taking me seriously. That’s his mistake. “What? Is she underage?”
