I turn the tape off. That’s when Simon started sobbing and I knew it wouldn’t be right to press him for details. Besides, my mind’s always been limber for disaster; it colors in most of it. I picture how Simon would have scrambled to his feet and run to the water, his eyes desperately searching for a flash of Danny’s hair, his swimming trunks, anything. I can see him pulling his T-shirt off as he splashes into the surf, all the while screaming Danny’s name. But no matter how much he screams, the sea gives him no clue, the waves roll black and uncaring around him, carrying Danny’s limp body further and further away. I imagine how small Simon must have felt in the face of such great terror; it’s how I felt when I thought we might lose Jakey. But whereas Jakey was spared—thank God—Simon wasn’t so lucky. Perhaps I was wrong to empathize with Simon, maybe I had let my fear of losing Jakey color my judgment and took his side too quickly.

I take a deep breath and, as I exhale, I pick up a notebook from the box. It’s the notebook I used while researching the article. One page has the corner turned down, a reminder to myself to go back to it. It’s an interview with a Dr. Nina Rossi from Plymouth. I remember she was one of the senior doctors at the practice where Grace was registered. At the bottom of the page I’ve scrawled a note in pen:

Uncomfortable answering questions about Meg and Grace—why?

I cast my mind back to the interview. I knew Grace’s old GP had moved on to a new post but thought it’d be helpful to meet Dr. Rossi anyway, to get the medical perspective on Grace’s limitations. As one of the senior doctors at the practice, she dealt with all media inquiries. Nina Rossi was an upright, tense woman who clearly had little interest in talking to me beyond parroting facts. Her answers are straightforward but I remember feeling she was holding something back. I let myself imagine for a moment that I’m writing an article on Meg’s murder and Grace’s disappearance. I’d go back to Plymouth, interview Dr. Rossi again, sniff out any other old contacts. No one would ever talk to me in Ashford now, but maybe I’d have more luck further afield. It’s not going to happen, though, I tell myself. A fantasy, nothing more. My phone starts to ring, shrilly interrupting my thoughts. It’s Jakey—I feel my whole world brighten.

“Dad!” He sounds out of breath, excited, and before I can say anything he says, “I made the team, Dad! I’m on the football team!” Tears prick behind my eyes, tears of gratitude, relief. He is safe, better than safe: he’s healthy and happy.

“Mate! That’s amazing news! God, I’m so proud of you! Are you striker?”

But on the other end of the line Ruth is calling his name.

“Coming, Mum!” he calls back.