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‘I guess.’
‘But what for? If he doesn’t know where Phin is?’
‘I have no idea. I mean, maybe he got a lead? A clue? But he’s on his way there now. He sent me a text just now. Him on a plane. And I tried to call him, tried to message him, but he’s blocked my number.’
‘Heblockedyou? Oh my God.’
‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘What shall I do?’
‘I have no idea. Have you searched his apartment? For clues?’
‘No. No, not properly. But even if I did find out where he was, then what?’
‘Well, maybe you could … I don’t know, go?’
Lucy laughs hoarsely. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘With two kids, a dog and a fake passport.’
‘Yes. Maybe not. But I’ll keep calling the reserve. See if anyone knows anything more. And hopefully, maybe, Phin might call. You never know. Fuck, Luce, what a fucking mess. I’m so sorry. I really am.’
They end the call and Lucy goes back into the living room where Stella has blue butter icing all over her chin. She opens drawers and cupboards. She goes through the pockets of Henry’s clothes in his bedroom, the pockets of his coats in the hallway. She calls his office, and they tell her that he’s told them he’s not coming back for at least a week, but that they don’t know where he is. She asks Oscar in the foyer of the apartment building if he knows where Henry might have gone, and he says no. She goes on to an app that shows her which flights left London at 7.45 a.m. and turns it off when she discovers that at least twenty flights leave London every fifteen minutes. She tries to message him, but her message is bounced back. She thinks of her first sighting of Henry last year, the strange, smiling man waiting for her in the empty shell of their childhood home with his hair made blond, his face made pretty, leaving her to guess if he was Henry or Phin, and an image floods her consciousness, bright as a flash: Phin, somewhere in this world, opening a door to Henry, a pair of hands pushing him hard across the room, and a chill runs through the core of her.
