Toby scanned the options outside Wye Villa: the road led down to the town one way, out towards open countryside the other, with a footpath leading off towards fields and woods. Brown streams of fast-flowing water were running down all sides. There weren’t many landmarks for a scared eleven-year-old to fix on.

‘I’m guessing she’s taken the same route we took yesterday.’ Tara pulled up the collar of her coat; it was no match against the wind. ‘I warn you, it’s muddy.’

Toby looked down at his grey suede trainers. ‘Oh, great.’

‘You could have taken my boots.’ Tara set off along the footpath, which was paw-pocked (a good sign) and slippery with mud. ‘We’re the same size.’

‘I’m not wearing my sister’s boots.’

‘You’re wearing your mother’s rain mac.’

‘She was more stylish than you.’

‘If only she were alive to hear you say that.’

Tara joked to downplay her mounting fears, and she knew Toby was doing the same from the apprehensive way his eyes went from his phone to the horizon to his phone, over and over.

Tara texted Molly’s phone again – ‘Stay where you are, we’re coming!’ – but got no reply, and they set their shoulders against the steady rain. Was that a distant rumble of thunder?

‘By the way, I think Molly was on the stairs yesterday,’ she said, scanning the brown fields for signs of Molly’s pink mac. ‘When we were … having words.’

‘Oh dear.’

They both knew what that meant, having eavesdropped a fair few arguments in the same place.

‘None of it would have made any sense to her,’ Toby pointed out.

But that didn’t matter, did it? Rain dripped into Tara’s eyes. Adults arguing for any reason was upsetting. Molly barely knew her and Toby, and they were meant to be looking after her. What had Dad said? He’d left her with the two people he trusted most in the world? And they’d let her wander off.

Tara swept the field with uneasy eyes, willing the pink mac to appear. What was Molly thinking now?

‘I hope she doesn’t think her mum being ill’s something to do with her.’ She could remember several people reassuring her it ‘wasn’t her fault’ her parents’ marriage had imploded. It had only cemented the idea in her mind.

‘Molly? Molly!’ Toby swung round, spraying his yells into the wind.

Still no text replies. Tara checked her texts, her WhatsApp. Nothing. She was too hot now under her coat, her armpits slick with sweat and panic.

‘She’s going to be OK, isn’t she? Toby?’

‘We said we’d look after her, and we will.’ Toby turned. His black hair was already flat on his head, as if he’d been dunked in the pool. ‘This is your lane, remember? The good-at-looking-after-things lane?’