Thomas takes us upstairs. He continues to talk, telling us Katie had become obsessed with finding her sister ever since they got married. Apparently Boston wasn’t the only cross-country trip she’d taken. She’d been to New York, Senora Virginia, chasing down girls she thought were her sister. The strain the search put on both of them became unbearable, almost ending their marriage. Then it stopped; after a lot of therapy and tablets, Katie stopped the search. Two years later Louise was born and it all started up again.

I should not be happy to find out that this woman was on the edge, but I am. The realization that I was not her only target makes me feel a lot better. I’m breathing normally now.

Then he opens the door.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I can’t believe my eyes. The walls are covered in charts, dates, pictures of women. All types of women – young girls, women my age, some with dark hair, blonde hair, one with no hair. It’s like walking into one of those horror movies where the psycho has thousands of photos of their victims pinned to their bedroom walls.

Some of the photos have a large x marked across them. A desk against the far wall is deep in scattered papers, except for an empty square where I guess the computer stood before the cops took it away. The room reeks of desperation. It seeps from the floor and the walls, the curtains opened on the large window to the left. The light has no effect. This room is dark.

Through the window the Mississippi flows by, a prospect for the strong, temptation for the weak. Large barges creep up on the city, crawling through the constant waters, laden with produce. Along the riverside two boys cycle their bikes, stopping to wave at a barge, maybe it’s their daddy, maybe it’s a stranger.

‘Wow,’ Jeff says, leaning in close to my ear. ‘Nut job.’

Thomas is standing by the door. I’m tapping Jeff on the arm, telling him to hush, when I see myself.

The page has been pulled from a magazine and is pinned right above the desk. The photo is mainly of the band taken at Mattie’s club, but I’m there at the bar, in the background. Excited and terrified, I move closer. The cameraman did not catch me at my best; in fact, I look fat, the uniform shirt is far too big on me. It’s hard to see the expression on my face from the distance, which I’m glad about; I doubt it’s flattering. I haven’t seen this picture before. But Katie Collins has managed to track it down and she has drawn a big red circle around me.

I beckon Jeff, show him the picture.

‘Not your finest hour,’ he says.