Outside it was still raining. There was still no further word from Amelia, despite all of Maggie’s many texts and attempts to call, and the nagging worry at the back of her mind was starting to build to an anxious crescendo. Will had seemed pretty shambolic in terms of health and safety; what was to stop Amelia falling off a cliff or into the river under his so-called supervision? Maybe she’d come down with a bout of salmonella – Maggie had seen that kitchen, after all. So full of angry pride at the time, she hadn’t thought to ask for Will’s number and now was unable to check that everything was all right and her daughter was still alive. Although she could have a quick look at Amelia’s social media, she supposed.

Maggie dithered for a moment. She knew that some parents were constantly snooping on their children’s online activities, but her conscience was always faintly ill at ease with this idea. It wasn’t spying, it was parental concern, she had to tell herself, opening the app. In fairness, she hardly ever looked at Amelia’s Instagram account – and Amelia had no idea she even knew her account name there, let alone followed her – but needs must today, frankly. Was that so terrible?

Okay, so she was alive, Maggie saw as soon as she opened the app and clicked onto Amelia’s account to see lots of new photos.

Having an amazing time with my famous dad!!! That was a selfie of them in a wood somewhere. Amelia looked happy enough, she decided, with her arm around Will, beaming into the camera.

First photography lesson with Dad – lucky me! Will on his own this time, setting up a tripod, looking earnest in a dark-green T-shirt and knackered old jeans.

Some shots from the top of a hill – Maggie zoomed in, but couldn’t tell where the pictures were taken, although Amelia had written I love Devon as her caption.

There were photos of the younger children too: the little boy pressing a cutter into some red rolled-out Play-Doh on the kitchen table at home. Amelia had caught him from the side and you could see his gorgeous long eyelashes and a frown of concentration; he looked lost in the moment. There were pictures of the little girl as well: running after the chickens in the garden, barefoot, with a purple dress floating out at the sides as she charged about. A blurry smile, her curly hair springing around her face – good action shots, thoughtfully taken. Nice domestic scenes.

Then there was a selfie of Amelia alone, collapsed in the middle of the grass, her limbs arranged artistically like a model, with bright flowers spangling the green. She looked beatific, blissed-out, as if Celeste had slipped her something trippy in the green tea. (She better bloody not have done, Maggie thought immediately.) So happy! ran the accompanying caption.