“But I didn’t find her, did I? The police haven’t been calling you to tell you to keep an eye on me, have they?”

“They’ve been calling you about me? Why?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’re worried, Cara, like everyone else is worried about you.”

“I’m all right, Mum, I don’t know what else to say.” I know now is probably not the best time to ask a favor, but I have to try. “Can I borrow the car for a few days? I can’t face the bus, there are still reporters around.”

Mum’s hand drops from my shoulder to hold her waist, her eyes narrow. She shakes her head and splutters a small, exasperated laugh. “Have you even listened to a word I’ve said?”

“What if I agree to call this counselor woman? Then can I have the car?”

But Mum’s shaking her head.

“I’m not giving in to emotional blackmail. You can’t be that worried about reporters, otherwise you wouldn’t be going to work, and besides, I need the car to ferry search volunteers. You know I don’t think you should be back at the pub so soon, but if you must go to work I’ll drop you off and pick you up after your shift.” Mum slumps back down at the kitchen table and, cupping her hand around her forehead, mutters, “I still haven’t written anything for the vigil tonight.”

Part of me wants to sit down and help her, but a bigger, noisier part is too angry with her for standing in the way of my plan. I can’t afford a taxi all the way to Plymouth and the bus route is terrible. I’ll have to change buses twice, it’ll take hours and means I probably won’t be able to see Dr. Rossi and Charlie in the same day. Mum’s treating me like a kid, just like everyone else, telling me I have a disorder, that I’m traumatized. It’s like they want me to collapse, like they’d be happy to see me fall apart—just like they knew I would. If Mum had given me the chance, I’d have told her about the card and the photo. I was even going to suggest we go to Plymouth to meet Dr. Rossi and Charlie together. But not now. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk out of the kitchen and brush my thumb against the smooth surface of Jon Katrin’s card. He’s going to Plymouth tomorrow . . .

I squash the thought before it’s even taken shape. I can’t ask him for a lift. I sit on my bed, back against the headboard, and remember how he looked at me today. It was almost as though he recognized something in me. It was the first time in two days that I didn’t feel like I was playing the lead part in a tragedy written by everyone else except me. He didn’t patronize and he didn’t treat me like I was sick. He just wants to find out the truth. I pull my laptop onto my knees and type “Jon Katrin journalist” into the search bar. There are hundreds of references from Facebook and local forums about the Meg and Grace article, but I decide not to read them now. I want to know who he was before he came to Ashford, before that article. I read a piece he wrote about the MPs’ expenses scandal and another about Islamophobia. I’m impressed; his writing is left-wing, feels thoroughly researched and considered. He won a litany of awards and was well regarded before he left London and his career nosedived. I’m about to start a third article, about a Christian cult, when there’s a gentle knock and my door starts to open. Mum’s perfume arrives before her, the smell of chemically reproduced flowers. She’s fully made up, ready for the vigil and the cameras.