I leave Dave before he’s finished his pint but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s a relief to be outside, walking home in the cool, dark night. I snap the band round my wrist so hard it breaks. “Fuck,” I say out loud as the limp rubber falls to the asphalt. And because it feels good I say it again: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ashford’s deserted, as though it’s 4 a.m. on a Sunday night, but for once I don’t miss the bustle of London, the wired feeling of being constantly in a race with nine million other people. Tonight, the stillness helps me think. While I was talking to Dave about Meg and Grace, all the unfathomable shit with Ruth and the future of our marriage melted away. For a while I understood who I was, and I didn’t ache anymore because my brain was busy, active with other people’s lives, other people’s pain. If Meg and Grace give me a purpose beyond myself, is that really such a bad thing?

I’ve tried to ignore it, but I can’t anymore. Meg might be beyond help but, despite what Dave thinks, Grace could still be alive. I don’t have much faith in the local force, not if Dave’s anything to go by. I was good at my job—great, in fact. I always found the leads that others couldn’t. What if I could find Grace?

I think fleetingly of Ruth, imagine her scornful expression as she tells me I just want to salvage my career. But this is about more than that. Grace is a very sick, very vulnerable child. Like my child once was. What if it was Jakey who’d been taken? We’d do anything we could to get him back. I’m one of the few people who have met Meg, Grace, and Simon, who have met people from their past. I’m in a unique position.

The restraining order flashes into my mind. I’m probably Ashford’s public enemy number two, after Simon. The police haven’t been in touch yet but I’m sure they will be—it’s lucky that I met with the organizers of the summer fair the night Meg was murdered. But I’ll still need to be careful, not do anything too public. For once, I can’t wait to be back at the flat. I want to have another look at my notebook, see if I turned down any other pages apart from the one about meeting Dr. Rossi.

I quicken my pace. I’m certain Simon was involved in Meg’s death and Grace’s kidnapping, which makes the article I wrote quietly supporting him even harder to bear. For the first time I question my judgment. I looked into Simon’s eyes and saw a troubled but innocent man. Am I the only one who didn’t see him for what he was? How could I have got it so wrong? I resolve, here and now, to use my experience and what I know to help Grace. I’ll use all my resources to find her, and then, when she’s safe, I’ll write an article, the best article I’ve ever written. I’ll apologize for what I wrote before and tell Grace’s story, all of it. It will be a tribute not only to her safe return but also to Meg’s memory. I feel twitchy for a pen and paper as the words take shape within me. The shamed reporter who helps find Britain’s most vulnerable victim, not only saving her but also saving himself in the process. Bloody hell, my road to redemption could be brilliant. I quicken my pace as the betting shop below my flat comes into view. I wish I could call Ruth, talk through the idea like we used to. But of course that’s the last thing I’m going to do. First, I need to find Grace, and then I need to write the article, and then maybe, just maybe, my family will come back to me.