‘Sorry. I… We… Mel hasn’t been in touch yet.’ I’d spoken to her yesterday, her mum was with her, along with the police, so she didn’t want me to go round. She said she’d told Fergus, but I didn’t know whether he was coming home although I thought he probably would. How could he not?

‘Mel’s promised to call the second there’s news.’ My voice diminishes with every disappointing word I tell my son.

Connor sits down heavily on a chair.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I rub his back the way I would when he was a baby after a night feed.

‘Ryan will be okay. Won’t he, Lucy?’ Aidan says.

‘I… I hope so,’ I say quietly. Aidan glares at me but it’s the best I can offer because in truth I just don’t know and Connor is too old to want false promises.

‘Where can he be?’ Connor asks, his gaze flicking between me and Aidan. My heart goes out to him. He looks so confused. So scared.

‘He’s probably with Fergus,’ Aidan says unconvincingly. Connor shakes his head, a tear spilling down his cheek. I haven’t seen him cry since he was eight and he went flying over the handlebars of his bike, landing face down on the tarmac. It’s unbearable. I want to tell him I feel his pain, all of it, but I can’t.

‘Connor…’ What can I say? I take his hand and he lets me hold it in the way he had that day all those weeks ago when I had to give him terrible, terrible news.

‘What if…’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘What if I’m taken next?’

‘You won’t be.’ This time my voice is steady, certain.

‘We’re not going to let anything happen to you,’ Aidan says. Both of us on the same page for once. ‘You’ll be safe inside this weekend and on Monday—’

‘Ryan and Tyler will probably be back?’ Connor asks with hopeful eyes.

‘Probably,’ Aidan reassures him and Connor’s face relaxes a little. He isn’t too old for false promises after all.

Aidan refuses the offer of breakfast before he heads out. After the cold coffee I can’t say I blame him. I am making scrambled eggs for Connor. It’s my second attempt. My hands shook so much the first time that I’d dropped most of the shell into the pan. I gaze out of the window into the garden at the empty washing line. The borders where the footprints had been.

The smoke alarm begins to shriek.

‘Mum!’

‘Shit.’ I grab at the pan but my fingers land too far down the handle and pain sears through my skin. I turn on the cold tap and soothe my burned hand under running water.

The letterbox clatters.

‘I’ll fetch the post,’ Connor says.