“I know how bloody awful it sounds, Car; you don’t have to look at me like that. I know how lucky I am to have you, a healthy daughter. But there have been times, Car, times I wished you weren’t quite so independent, times I wished you needed me.”

My throat constricts with guilt and regret. It spreads through me like soup, hot and thick, and I don’t know how to turn it into words.

“I do need you, Mum.” I sound meek as I reach for her hand. She squeezes it once, but then quickly lets me go.

“No you don’t, Car, not really, not the way I need you. You’re like your dad that way, he was always off doing his own thing, he never needed me either.”

Her voice hardens whenever she mentions Dad, especially when she’s drunk. I don’t want to argue about him, not now, not after today.

“Maybe you should go to bed, Mum, you must be exhausted.”

She shrugs in a resigned kind of way that shows I’ve just proved her point, that I’m casting her aside again, just like always. She moves unsteadily back to the sofa.

“You go on then, Car.” Her voice slurs. “I’m going to stay here and finish my wine and think about how I’ve screwed my life up.”

I know she wants me to rush to her, throw my arms around her, and tell her she’s wrong, that she’s the best mum in the world. That’s what Grace would do. The old Grace. But I feel empty. I don’t have anything good to give her and besides, I know she won’t remember any of this in the morning, so I turn away.

“Good night then, Mum.” As I say it, I hear her gently start to sob again.

I sit on my bed and stare at the Wishmakers forum on my phone. In the sitting room Mum turns on the telly to a noisy chat show, waves of laughter filling the silence. It still stings that Jon doesn’t believe I saw Grace, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’m on my own now and there’s only one thing I can do that makes sense to me. I open up a new message on the forum and in the “to” field type in GoodSam. I spent the drive home composing this message in my head so I know exactly what I want to type. But now that I’m here, I pause. What if GoodSam doesn’t know anything about Grace after all and he shows my message to the police? They’d either bring me in for questioning or lock me in a mental hospital. Either way, it wouldn’t be good. But what if he does know something, anything, that could help? Him exposing me is a risk I have to take. I start to type.

Hi. I messaged you because I know you knew Grace Nichols, the missing girl? This is going to sound crazy but I think I saw her today. No one else will listen to me but . . .