Page 72 of Emerald

“Everything’s good here,” Dom says, unoffended. “I’ve got three people patrolling. Everyone’s on alert.”

The train pulls into the station at last.

I hear it before I see it, and then I see it rushing in, pulling cleanly to a stop, and opening up the doors to allow the passengers to stream out.

“Gotta go,” I say to Dom, “she’s here.”

But I haven’t actually seen Sloane on the platform yet.

I get out of the car, walk up the steps to the open platform to look for her.

Tourists and commuters pass me by on both sides, the stream parting around the immovable rock. I scan each of them, as if I wouldn’t recognize Sloane’s slim figure and lovely face immediately.

I can already feel the sick, rushing dread in the pit of my stomach, though I’m telling myself it’s too soon to worry, she was probably just at the back of the train, or she’s stopped at the bathrooms, or I just missed her in the crowd.

But the platform is clearing, and she’s nowhere to be seen.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, my fingers so numb that I almost drop it on the cement.

I check for a message or a missed call from Sloane.

For a moment I wonder if she decided to stay in Moscow after all, but of course that’s stupid. She was adamantly against that idea, and she would have told me if she changed her mind. She knew I was coming to the station to pick her up.

A deeper part of my brain worries that she decided to go somewhere else entirely. She could have a flat in Paris, in Tokyo, in Madagascar for all I know. She might even have gone back to America.

But I don’t think that’s it, either.

The other alternative I don’t even want to consider.

I hit her number, the phone seeming to take forever to connect.

It rings and rings.

There’s no answer from Sloane.

I hang up and try again.

Ringing and ringing, without any response.

Sloane doesn’t have voicemail.

I assume she switches phone numbers every month or two, the same as I do.

My mind is racing.

How can I find out if she bought a ticket? If she boarded the train?

I feel like I should get on before it leaves again—try to find a conductor, ask if anyone saw her.

But maybe I should stay here at the station where we were supposed to meet?

I’ve never been so indecisive before.

I’m a fucking mess, this isn’t like me at all.

I always know what to do. I always have a plan.

My phone buzzes in my hand, like an insect trapped in my palm.