At the Door

Emma had called James Morrison before travelling to see him. He had agreed to a short visit, although he warned her that he might refuse to answer her questions. She spent the journey reading the article she had published in 2011. It was worse than she remembered: the suggestion that Claire had vanished after a family argument was presented almost as a fact.

James opened the front door without stepping aside.

“I know who you are,” he said.

“I wrote an article about Claire that I couldn't support with evidence. I'm sorry.”

“You made it sound as though she'd abandoned us after an argument.”

“I did. And I was wrong.”

James looked older than in the photographs Emma remembered. His anger, however, seemed untouched by the years.

“The last reporter who promised not to quote me put my words in a Sunday paper,” he said.

“I won't record you. I won't publish anything you say without your agreement.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No. I'm asking you to decide for yourself.”

Emma stepped away from the door. She had almost reached the gate when he called her back.

“Five minutes. In the kitchen.”

The kitchen was bright and ordinary. A child's drawing hung on the fridge, and the kettle stood beside the sink. Emma noticed both details but decided they were not hers to describe in an article.

“What exactly do you want?” he asked.

“To correct the record. And to find out what happened before Claire disappeared.”

“You want to track her down.”

“I don't know whether she's alive. And if I found her, that wouldn't automatically give me the right to publish her address.”

James studied her.

“That's a better answer than you gave fifteen years ago.”

James filled the kettle and asked whether Emma wanted tea. She said yes, although she had already had two cups on the train. The ordinary question made the room feel less like an interview. Emma put her recorder back into her bag where James could see it. She opened her notebook only after he sat down. Through the window she could see a bicycle resting against the garden wall. It was a quiet home, and she understood why James did not want his family drawn back into a public investigation. She wrote the date at the top of the page, then left the rest blank.