Stewie’s dreams have taken a nightmarish turn. A stealthy sniper lies in wait for him in a network of dark rooms. As she pushes open his bedroom door, Vicky is pointlessly quiet, conditioned by years of parenting. The light from the landing forms a triangle on the carpet, acute at first, and as she opens the door wider, obtuse. It’s geometry of the kind Stewie struggles with, but these days the more Paul tries to help him, the more Stewie becomes stubborn and shuts down.

His room smells unmistakably of him, a smell that’s changed in recent months from the bubble-bath sweetness of little boyhood to supermarket deodorant and a base note of musk which permeates his sheets and all his clothes. The hoody and joggers he wore after school are heaped on the floor, and yesterday’s uniform trousers hang from a belt-loop on a chair. There are posters on the walls – The Walking Dead, a Bugatti Veyron, the psychedelic masks of CamelPhat, whose music Vicky actually likes – and everywhere there’s the clutter of Stewie’s pastimes, DVDs and game CDs in and out of boxes, his skateboard, gloves and knee pads, the bike helmet he refuses to wear.

And in the midst of the chaos, there’s Stewie, safe in this room where he should be, and Vicky believes she can imagine how Claire feels, how it would be to be standing in this doorway with Stewie missing, gone. Even the thought of it stirs her stomach, and her heart contracts as if a malicious hand has squeezed it, and her mind flashes up an image of herself, demented with grief.

She shuts the image down. Not me. Her.

The gratitude she feels is shameful, but even though she knows how base it is, the gratitude’s still there.

Stewie’s moving restlessly in his sleep, tormented by his Xbox hangover. In a loud whisper, she says his name, not wanting to startle him by waking him suddenly, forgetting that often these days it’s difficult to wake him at all. But something in Stewie’s subconscious is anxious to escape the sniper, and in the triangle of light from the landing, she sees his eyes blinking and bright.

‘Are you awake, Stewie?’

His mother’s presence in his room, in the dark, signals something’s going on, and Stewie sits up.

‘What’s the matter? Is everyone OK?’

‘You need to come downstairs.’ Vicky’s still whispering, thinking of George. ‘The police are here.’ Stewie’s face, half in shadow, shows he’s startled, and she realises she’s scared him, despite her best intentions. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. They want to talk to you about Evan.’

‘What about Evan?’

She hasn’t thought what words to use, but actually, it doesn’t matter.

‘He didn’t come home from school.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Stewie frowns. ‘I saw him get on the bus.’

‘Did you, Stewie?’

He considers.