No! My son isn’t dead. I’d know if he were dead. I’d feel it. Somehow, somewhere, he’s still alive. Desperate. Terrified. But still alive. Still breathing. But for how much longer?

So here I sit, feeling grey and useless – and I pray. It seems like the only time I manage to do so is when death is knocking at the door of me and mine. I’m praying like I haven’t in a long, long time that the kidnappers won’t kill my son and Tobey’s daughter outright, but will try to get Callie to see reason and dump Tobey’s sorry arse.

Now that he’s had more than a taste of power, he’ll never give it up. Not for anyone. Power is addictive. Worse than alcohol, gambling and drugs combined. One taste is never enough. No sacrifice is too much. That’s where Tobey’s at now. I can see it in his eyes in every news bulletin or poster that features him. That lean, hungry look he can’t quite disguise, no matter how hard he tries. I recognize it because I grew up with it. I saw it every day on the face of my father. Kamal Hadley was a politician first, last and every ladder rung in between. He let nothing and no one into his life that didn’t serve his ambition. It was all about the optics. He had to be a family man because, back in the day, having a family played better in the world of politics than being single. He had to be independently wealthy because then he could sell the dream that anyone could have as much as him if only they worked hard enough. He had to turn his back on me to appease those Crosses who believed that Noughts were a subspecies. Tobey’s agenda may be different to my dad’s, but the result will be the same. His life, his world will chew up and spit out anyone who wasn’t born with titanium armour surrounding their heart.

So what happens now?

Callie and Tobey are working together to try and find the kids – before it’s too late. I’m trying so hard to hold on to hope, but the passing of time has taught me that hope flies on the finest of gossamer wings. Cling to it too hard and it’s so easy to crush. Handle it too lightly and it darts away, then one blink and it’s gone.

Oh, Callum, it’s so strange. I don’t believe in life after death. Yet sometimes, when it’s late at night and I’m lying in the dark, I stretch out my arm, curl my fingers and pretend that you’re lying next to me, holding my hand. Not Nathan. You.

The thought comforts me.

The feeling shames me.

How is this going to end, Callum?

How is this going to end?