“The police are appealing to anyone who knows or has seen Simon Davis, a forty-five-year-old Caucasian man, to contact the police on the number below. If you see Mr. Davis you are advised not to approach him, but to contact the police immediately.”

A grainy photo fills the screen, not a great shot. People can’t have been in the habit of taking photos of Simon if this is the best they have. He’s smiling, head tilted at the camera, his eyes half-shut. He’s standing as though he has his arm around someone’s shoulders but they’ve been cut out, giving the sinister impression Simon might be holding on to them. His hair is longer, messier than I remember, his features smaller in a fuller face. The reporter keeps talking.

“Search-and-rescue groups are preparing to work through the night in their effort to find Grace Nichols. Concerns are growing for the seventeen-year-old, who has a complex history of health conditions, including an extremely rare type of muscular dystrophy. South West News has been informed that Grace also had problems with her heart, and epilepsy, for which she needs daily medication. Stress and anxiety are known to worsen both conditions, so it is of upmost importance that Grace is found as quickly as possible. Her neighbors and friends are understandably very concerned for Grace and are making an urgent appeal to anyone who might provide information on her whereabouts.” The image snaps to an interview prerecorded earlier today. The woman is middle-aged, with unnaturally bright red hair that falls in waves below her shoulders. Her face is puffy, her blue eyes flick from the camera to the reporter, and as she talks a dimple winks in her cheek. Susan Dorman, Meg’s next-door neighbor and a regular on local forums. She was one of the ringleaders in the hate campaign against me after the article went live—CornishSuse. I look away from her face on the screen, my fingers gripping my pint glass. CornishSuse was there days after the article was printed, watching from across the street when some yob spat on me and told me to fuck off back to London. I was still more confused than angry then. In my mind, all I’d said in the article was that Grace might benefit from having her dad in her life, that their estrangement was a decision I felt had been made for her rather than by her. Although I could never say it out loud, especially now, I still stand by the article. It was meant in good faith. It was what I did after that photo of Jakey was posted—getting drunk and angry—that I regret. It never crossed my mind that the article would upset people the way it did—it was like I’d attacked every Ashford mum individually. I had to hide out in Ruth’s parents’ house for two days after that. Now it seems they were right and I was wrong after all; Simon is dangerous, a sick man capable of terrible violence. I begged Ruth to move back to London but she wouldn’t budge. I had no choice. I had to stay in Ashford. Thinking about Ruth reminds me why I called Dave in the first place.