Barry starts the footage running at two p.m. The picture is crystal clear, so it won’t be difficult to spot her. A nurse opens the door to a young family arriving with a huge bunch of flowers. They are quickly followed by more visitors. Everyone looks as frustrated as I feel entering this place. They all present with worry scraped across their faces, putting on their polite smiles. I never considered the other people here. I always felt as if I was the only visitor and Mom the only sick person. I can be so selfish at times.

‘Will you recognize her?’ Barry says, his eyes on the screen.

‘I’m pretty sure I will, yeah.’

I will, Barry, and so will you. Her face has been front and center on every TV screen for the past six hours. Shit, I never thought of that. What’s Barry going to think when he realizes I’m stalking a dead woman?

After watching people entering and leaving for over an hour we have come up with nothing. No Katie Collins. I thought once or twice I saw someone that could be her, but when Barry zoomed in, they didn’t fit.

‘Well, that’s it,’ he said. ‘You don’t see her?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re sure it was the 24th?’

‘That was the day she signed the book,’ I say. I’m feeling deflated even though I should be relieved. ‘Thanks, Barry.’

‘Hold on,’ he says, pulling the visitor’s book from below the counter. ‘Let me just check something.’ He flicks through the pages. When he gets to the 24th, he reads through the list of names.

‘Katie Collins…’

Then he turns the page to Saturday. It’s empty.

‘Oh,’ he says.

My heart leaps. ‘What is it?’

‘Saturday’s page is blank.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that either not one person came to visit on a Saturday, which is unlikely, or that the page wasn’t turned over onto the 25th.’

‘So she might have been here on the Saturday?’

‘Could be. Let’s see what we have.’

The clock in the corner of the screen is displaying 2.34p.m. when I see her, blonde hair tied back, wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt. Katie Collins visited Oakridge on the 25th October at 2.34p.m.

I was here that day; I’m here every Saturday. Christ, I must have missed her by a few minutes. Maybe we even passed one another in the corridor.

My eyes lock onto the image. My heart races. This is her. Katie Collins. Moving closer to the screen I scan every inch of her face, her neck, her eyes. Why did you come here, Katie? What did you want from me? With my eyes ingesting every detail, her shape steps further into the distance. Away from the camera, closer to the danger.

Who killed you, Katie?