She disappears through the door again, and in the empty room the television seems louder. An ad for diabetes medication with its million-and-one legal disclaimers finally segues back to the local news station. I rub my eyes - I barely slept last night, again - and tune in to the newscaster, who has her serious face on.

Schoolgirl missing, the ticker reads.

Huh. I wonder if it’s somewhere local. There are plenty of wealthier communities around here, but Milham isn’t one of them. We provide the gardeners, cleaners, plumbers and mechanics to this little patch of Connecticut’s wealthier families. After all, they need somebody to mow their pristine lawns, service their Land Rovers, wipe their kids’ noses, and dust their homes. Something tells me that if a girl from around here has gone missing, it’s not one of those girls, with their helicopter parents and nannies. More likely it’s a girl from somewhere like Milham - some kid from the wrong side of the tracks who never stood a chance.

After some more solemn words from the newscaster which I can’t hear, the studio camera cuts to an outdoor scene. A scene I could draw from memory. A scene I know like the back of my hand, like the cracks in the ceiling I stare at when I can’t sleep. A scene that all too often, on my sleepless nights, I do draw from memory in my head. The camera pans round a sprawl of redbrick buildings, neat lawns, chestnut trees. Tall black gates and a long gravel drive.

Horton.

A Horton girl has gone missing.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the camera cuts again. And now I’m no longer looking at those redbrick walls, those Harry Potter turrets. Now I’m looking at the face of a sixteen-year-old girl. Blonde hair waterfalling over her shoulders, either side of an oval face. Shrewd eyes, serious mouth, lips a little parted like she’s about to speak. That’s when I realize I’ve been holding my breath, because the gasp when I inhale almost chokes me. If I had that glass of water, it would have fallen right from my hand.

The girl on the screen is Devon Hundley.

Two

‘Ms Kelly? Are you all right, Ms Kelly?’

The receptionist is looking at me with concern. I stand up, swallowing. I realize I’ve dropped my phone on the ground and bend to get it. I stumble a little.

‘Ms Kelly…’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll - I’ll come back later.’

‘But the doctor’s free now.’ The receptionist knits her brows. ‘She’s ready for you -’

I wave my hand, trying to make a reassuring gesture. ‘It’s - I’m sorry. Very sorry. I’ll come back later.’

I leave her by the door, staring at me, and step outside into the cold air.

Breathe, Sadie.