The Missing Card

By Monday, people at college had learned to lower their voices badly when I entered a room.

The effort was sometimes worse than the talking. A conversation would stop halfway through a sentence, leaving everyone looking at a noticeboard or an unopened bottle of water. I wanted them either to ask me or to become much better at pretending.

In the media room, someone had taken my usual chair.

It was not an act of aggression. There were no assigned seats. The boy in it was trying to fix a title that kept appearing outside the safe area of his frame, and he looked genuinely surprised when he noticed me standing beside him.

“Do you need this computer?”

“No. It's fine.”

I took a place by the window. For a moment I had the unreasonable feeling that everything I had done before Friday was being quietly reassigned.

Ms Delaney came in with a box of old sketchbooks for the foundation applicants to look through. She explained that none of them was a perfect example. Some belonged to students who had been accepted, some to students who had changed direction, and one to a student who had decided after three months that she wanted to become an electrician.

“Do not copy the appearance of development,” she said. “Actually develop something. A page of arrows and coffee stains doesn't prove you thought.”

I opened a sketchbook full of careful drawings of hinges. The student had spent six pages trying to make a paper object open without tearing. It was the first thing I had seen all morning that did not make me feel watched.

Delaney stopped beside me.

“Tomorrow's portfolio session,” she said quietly. “Your mother can come at the beginning if that's useful. We can explain the practical options together.”

“Mum's working.”

“She said she could swap an hour. I spoke to her about travel support, with your permission from last week.”

I had forgotten that conversation entirely.

“Right. Yes.”

“Bea, look at me.”

I did.

“You don't have to make every decision tomorrow. We are going to look at what you have and what you can realistically do next.”

“That sounds less like a portfolio session.”

“It is an unusually useful sort.”

She moved on before I could ask whether useful meant less ambitious.

At break, Imani found me on the back steps with the hinge sketchbook balanced on my knees.

“You've joined engineering.”

“Paper engineering.”

“Respectable field.”

She sat beside me. For a few seconds neither of us knew what to do with our hands. Then she put hers on the step between us, palm up, and I took it.

It was ridiculous how much courage that required in daylight.

“Was your dad all right about Friday?” I asked.

“He asked whether you needed a better tripod.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he saw the leg catch when you packed it.”

“Oh.”

“Possibly also something else. I'm choosing not to investigate.”

My phone vibrated against the sketchbook.

Unknown number.

I nearly ignored it. Then the message preview appeared.

It's Finn. My phone's playing up. I found something you might need.

I felt my hand tighten around Imani's.

“What is it?” she asked.

I showed her.

“Don't answer before you breathe,” she said.

I took a breath that sounded annoyed because I was frightened.

What have you found?

The reply took two minutes.

The card wallet. It got put in the soft bag. I thought everything had gone back with the hard case.

For a moment I could see nothing except the words. The wallet existed somewhere outside the repeated image on my screen. Somebody could put it on a table. Somebody could open it.

“Tell the officer,” Imani said.

I nodded, but my fingers had already started a reply.

Where is it?

With me. I was sorting stuff from Nan's.

Take it to the police. They've been looking for it.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, returned.

Can I talk to you first?

I looked at Imani. She shook her head once, not ordering me, just answering the question in my face.

About what?

There are things on it that aren't for everyone.

My stomach turned.

Do you mean the fundraiser recording?

I mean private things. People talking. You know what raw footage is like.

I did. It contained mistakes, background conversations, the person behind the camera coughing or asking somebody to move a bag. It also contained an evening the police were trying to reconstruct.

Don't change anything, I wrote. Give it to them as it is.

He called.

I let it ring once, twice, then answered with Imani beside me. I did not put it on speaker. I did not record it. I wished afterwards that I had thought more clearly, but wishing was not a method for going back.

“Bee.”

His voice was low and rough.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“At home. Near home. I'm not doing anything stupid.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“I found the wallet. That's what you wanted, isn't it?”

“What I wanted was for it not to be missing.”

He breathed out sharply.

“Can you not do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make every sentence a test.”

I closed my eyes. Imani's hand was still in mine.

“I'm asking you to return it,” I said.

“I will. I just need to explain.”

“Explain to the police.”

“They won't understand how things get mixed up after an event. They'll think I meant to keep it.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly for me to trust it, but speed was not proof of anything. I was tired of needing to remind myself of that about every movement he made.

“You told me the cards were in the case when it went back,” I said.

“I thought they were.”

“You said you'd checked.”

“I checked the garage. I didn't check every bag at Nan's.”

“Then take the bag too.”

He was quiet.

Somewhere near him a door closed. I could hear traffic, though he had said he was at home. Or near home. He had already left himself both versions.

“Do you still have the silent file?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The whole one?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“Why?” I asked.

“I thought you cut it.”

“I cut the highlights. I kept the full viewing copy.”

“Oh.”

The word was very small.

“The police have it,” I said.

“I know.”

But I was no longer sure he had known before that moment.

He began saying something about the original sound. Then stopped and asked whether I was alone.

“No.”

“Who are you with?”

“Imani.”

He gave a short laugh that contained no pleasure.

“Of course.”

“Don't.”

“What?”

“Whatever you were going to make that mean.”

He said he had to go. Before I could answer, the call ended.

I wrote down as much as I could while it was still fresh. Imani sat without reading over my shoulder. When I had finished, she asked whether I wanted her to come with me to the office to call Mum.

“Yes,” I said.

Mum answered from the pharmacy's back room. I could hear the refrigerator humming behind her.

“He says he has the wallet,” I told her.

“Have you told the police?”

“I'm doing that next.”

“Do it now. I'll ring you back when I've spoken to my manager.”

Adebayo was not immediately available. The officer who took the message asked me to send screenshots and not arrange to meet Finn. He said any equipment should be handed to police, not passed between students.

I sent everything I had, including the unfamiliar number and a note about the call.

At lunchtime, Finn messaged again.

You're at the portfolio thing tomorrow, aren't you? I can give it back then.

I stared at the words. We had signed up for the session weeks earlier, sitting side by side in this same building. He had joked that our futures depended on whether a broken printer would release the forms.

I replied: Give it to the police. I am not collecting it from you privately.

He did not answer.

For the rest of the afternoon, every time the door opened, I looked up.