"Good evening Mr Collins, I'm Officer Ben Davies. The woman over there is my colleague, Officer Dawn Evans. The receptionist said you had some evidence pertaining to your daughter's disappearance. Is this correct?"

I stare at the officer before me, my mouth dry as the reality of what I'm about to do, the consequences of my soon to be actions, starts to sink in. I can do nothing but nod. He pulls his chair closer, the scraping of metal on the concrete floor shooting pain through my teeth.

"Can we get you something to drink? Tea? Water?"

"Jus-just water. Please."

He motions towards the other officer in the room, who left with no hesitation. We waited in uncomfortable silence until her return. The cool water soothed my coarse throat, gave some settlement to the twisted knots in my stomach. I can't believe I'm about to do this. The lid of the bottle tumbles to the floor. I struggle to retrieve it with my shuddering hands.

"Take your time, Mr Collins. We're not here to judge you. We just want to help your daughter."

I nod, grateful for the sentiment. My leg bucks beneath the table despite my hand firmly gripping it in a failing attempt to calm the nerves. She would kill me if she knew where I was. If she knew what I was about to do. Stop it Rob. You can't think like this. Naomi deserves justice.

I push a green notebook across the table, thankful to have its contents far away from my skin. I fear the longer I had kept it, the more it would have tainted my flesh and mind. Grunting, I heave a large binder folder and slide that too across the table. Ben says nothing as he pulls them close, flicking through the pages. His brows pull together, hand rubbing his jaw as he takes in each word.

"And you say this is your wife's, am I correct?"

"Yes sir. I didn't know she kept one. Can you use it to find my daughter?"

He scratches his neck.

"This is all awful stuff," he says while turning page after page in the folder. "You suffered some serious injuries. Why didn't you report this abuse?"

I huffed, my face in my hands.

"Who would have believed me? I'm six two, a giant compared to my wife. No-one took me seriously."

He nods empathetically. Not a single soul has reacted in such a way upon finding out how horrific my life had been behind closed doors. Not one person had ever cared. They had taken one look at the tiny woman in the room with me and believed every deceitful word she'd uttered. I'd been completely and utterly alone.

"Okay. Here's what we're going to do, Mr Collins. We need you to tell us everything you know. Then I promise you, one way or another, we will bring your wife in," he must have smelt the fear on me, noticed the way I fidgeted more and shrunk in on myself, "Don't worry. We won't let her hurt you ever again. You have my word."

I nod, the shame I would normally feel at crying becoming a distant memory. This is it. I'm going to be free.

———-—- 

Wendy had been in a foul mood for weeks. I wasn't sure what had happened, but I knew it had to have been something serious. Her anger towards me had escalated in ways that had made me fearful for my life.

The day before our thirtieth wedding anniversary, she'd been screaming and shouting at me from our bedroom. As always, I kept out of her way, counting and praying for her mood to pass. I busied myself with a cooked breakfast, hoping to cool her temper quicker with her favourite food. Oil spat from the pan, leaving blisters alongside those almost fully healed from the last time I'd stepped out of line when Wendy had been fuelled with rage. I barely winced. My body had adjusted somewhat to pain, or perhaps it was my mind that had become numb. I wasn't sure which.]The eggs had cooked just how Wendy liked them when the phone rang. I raced to silence the shrill ring, praying with each step that I would get there before she heard, before she screamed and threw whatever her hands landed on. I could hear her footsteps getting louder. With my heart in my throat, my hands finally wrapped around the receiver, ending the noise in an instant. Thank God. Her footsteps halted above me, silence filling the house.

"Hello, Mr Collins speaking. How can I help?"

A soft, feminine voice whispered into my ear. Goosebumps pricked at her words.

"It's me, dad. It's Naomi."

Words lodged in my throat. After all this time. Sobs tear from me, two decades of confusion and hope spilling over. My daughter. My beautiful little girl. I couldn't believe. I can't tell you how good it was to hear her voice, to know she was alive after all this time.

"Oh, my sweet girl! Where are you? Your mum and I will come get you now!"

I could hear the hesitation in her voice.

"Mum hates me. She told me she never loved me. I just need someone to listen to me."

Hearing her sobs shot pain through my chest. No parent likes to hear their child suffering, let me tell you. I promised to meet her, accepted her request to not tell Wendy. If truth be told, I was ashamed of my wife. I couldn't understand how she could turn her back on our daughter, how she could do anything but embrace her and tell her everything would be okay. 

I barely had my shoes on before the car door closed on me. This was it. I was going to see my little girl.

The cafe we had agreed to meet was almost empty. The few stragglers that hung about too preoccupied with their food to notice an old man staring at any young woman that happened to walk near the door. Each time I saw someone who looked to be in their mid-twenties, my breath would catch. Each time they continued on their journey past the cafe, my heart would sink.

And then I saw her. She was so beautiful, just as she had been the last time I saw her. Her hair was darker, pulled into a messy bun atop her head. Her skin had a subtle tan that complimented her smile. It took all my strength not to rise from the chair and pull her close. I didn't want to scare her, to give her any discomfort. As hard as it was, I had to remind myself that I was essentially a stranger to her. It was perhaps one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

She sat, hands clasped together, body pulled back into the chair, observing my face. I knew at that moment; she was my daughter. My Naomi. She had the same deep blue eyes that I remembered, the ones she'd inherited from my mother. The same dimple on her left cheek. There was no denying it. Something had been missing, but I wasn't sure initially what that was. She passed over photos of herself through the years. Her at her university graduation, her at the beach. All these memories she should have made with us.

It wasn't until we were getting ready to leave, with the promise of seeing each other soon, that I realised what had been missing. Her scar. I remembered the summer before Naomi disappeared, she'd only been four at the time. It had been one of my days off. I'd been promising her for weeks that I would teach her to ride a bike. It was a pink one, with stabilisers and rainbow tassel on the handlebars. She'd done well for a first attempt, swaying this way and that but keeping her balance nonetheless. I don't think she had seen the wall, or perhaps I ought to have explained how to use the breaks properly a little more. Before I could react, her front wheel collided with the red brick and she flew over the handlebars. Oh, the blood. I was never one to feel queasy easily, but the sight of it had me weak at the knees. After hours of waiting in A&E, she left fixed with butterfly stitches and a strawberry lollipop. It took far longer for me to lick the wounds of a traumatised father. After that, she'd proudly shown off the v shaped scar above her right eyebrow.

Looking at the woman before me now, there was no scar. No hint of any summer time mishaps. I knew she was Naomi. Her pictures alone were proof of that. There was no way she could be a clone of the girl I'd loved and lost. Yet the lack of scarring made no sense. On the ride home, I questioned my memories. Wondered if it was simply the longing of a grieving father rather than reality. I'd decided to find the photo albums and shoeboxes stuffed with photographs that Wendy and I had accumulated over the years. Pictures don't lie. If she really did have a scar, it would be in one of the last ever photos we had captured of her.

I didn't want to snoop when Wendy was home. She was very particular about Naomi's things. She never allowed in Naomi's room, nor was I to under any circumstances go into Wendy's closet where our photographs lived. I would have to wait until I knew she would be out of the house for a few hours. Thankfully, I wouldn't have long to wait. She had bragged for days about an upcoming lunch date with her friend from school, Sarah, Sophie. Something like that. I thought I would be able to sneak in, find the photos I needed, put everything back as it was, and leave without her ever knowing.

If only I knew how wrong I was. Part of me wishes I could go back to living in a naïve bubble, believing my wife had suffered alongside me for fifteen years. Once you see something like I did, it burns itself in your mind. You can't eat or sleep, for the image is replaying over and over. Wendy truly had found a new way to torture me.

For this to be false, Officer, I would give anything. I'd sell my soul to the Devil himself if it could bring her back. I just... I. I still can't comprehend what I read, what I know now. Never again will I feel complete.