When I get back to the agency, a summary of Ellen’s house crystal clear in my head, Veronica has the folder already waiting on the counter, Rob’s business card and mine both in their slots.

‘You just missed him,’ she says, as she slides it over to me.

There’s an agency post-it on the front, with ‘Good job, Mike. R’ scrawled on it in pen and a smiley face drawn under the ‘R’.

On the TV, another HGTV show slips by, no babies this time. I can still see that little arm in the car on the freeway, dark against the light behind it.

Lacy rubs her jaw muscles and stares at the screen, through it, past it. Somewhere down the road, goodbyes are called out in the night, car doors slam, an engine starts and the car drives off, the sound of it getting smaller and smaller. Cedar has been in bed more than an hour, asleep in minutes as usual.

Lacy pats her pockets, checks the arms of her chair. ‘You seen my phone?’

‘I don’t think so.’ It’s not on the coffee table, not on the sofa near me. ‘When did you last have it?’

She thinks for a moment. ‘Might have been before the lesson, the last lesson this afternoon. Maybe it’s in the music room.’

She stands up and goes to check. She opens the music room door and reaches for the light switch as she steps inside. There’s a crunch as her foot comes down, and she stumbles, falling on her knees.

‘Goddamnit,’ she says loudly, reaching for a chair with one hand and pulling herself to her feet. She turns the light on. ‘Who leaves their goddamn cello . . .’

It’s a cello case that she’s stood on, the peg-box end of it, which now has a clear dent in it.

‘Jackson Cole,’ she says, staring down at it. ‘Last lesson of the day. He stayed a half-hour to play with Cedar while his mom was picking up one of the other kids. Look at it . . .’

I’m already beside her. I put a hand on her shoulder, but she crouches down and presses on the end of the cello case. It gives way easily.

‘We’ll fix it. It’s okay.’ I crouch down too.

‘It’s styrofoam.’ She feels along it carefully with her fingers, finding the spot where it’s given way.

The end section has been crushed.

‘I’m sure there’s a way.’ I pull out my phone to check. ‘There’s, like, a special glue you can get for styrofoam.’ I say it to my phone – ‘styrofoam, glue’ – and Google throws up the alternatives. ‘Normal white craft glue is okay,’ I tell her. ‘We might even have some of that.’

‘It’s not going to . . .’ She sits down on the chair and puts her head in her hands. She’s completely silent, completely still. After a few seconds, she takes a breath, but otherwise she’s lost in there.