. . . The police are still focusing their efforts on finding Simon Davis, father of the missing Grace Nichols. CCTV footage shows Davis boarding a train to London the morning after the murder, but they haven’t as yet released any further details on his whereabouts. The public is reminded not to approach him but to call the police immediately if they see him. Police and community groups are continuing to search the local area for any sign of Megan’s daughter, Grace Nichols. Now over to Sabrina for the weather. Sabrina . . .

Cara doesn’t stir; we’ve both heard the updates before. I flick again, on to a program about a group of parents who are teaching their kids how to speak Cornish, before changing back to the love song.

“So, mind if I ask what it is you want to give Dr. Rossi?” Cara glances down towards the crumpled backpack in the footwell next to her scuffed Dr. Martens boots. With a blunt nail she picks the skin around the nails on her other hand, glancing at me quickly before replying.

“Grace used to make these personalized thank-you cards for people who helped her and Meg somehow. Mum got one for doing a half marathon to raise money for her wheelchair a couple of years ago. Anyway, I found one for Dr. Rossi that she never sent. She’d written a note in it and everything, so I thought she should have it.”

That’s it? A thank-you card? I don’t know what I was expecting, but certainly something more significant, more substantial than something she could easily have posted. Cara seems to pick up on what I’m thinking.

“I was going to send it, but, like you said, I couldn’t just sit around and keep pretending Grace hasn’t been taken. It might not actually help find her, but at least I can do something I know would make her smile.” Cara looks fierce for a moment, defensive.

I clear my throat, tell myself it doesn’t matter how insignificant it is. Dr. Rossi was still intrigued enough to agree to a meeting.

Suddenly Cara turns to me and says, “So what was Simon like when you met him?”

The abruptness of her question takes me by surprise. I decide it’s best to keep things vague.

“Depressed, lonely, misunderstood, or so I thought at the time.”

“And now? What do you think of him now?”

“Well, if he is behind all of this, then I think he’s a brilliant manipulator and I’m even more of an idiot for supporting him in that article.”

“And if he’s not?”

I feel my forehead fold into a frown. “I think it’s unlikely he’s not, to be honest. There are no other suspects, no one they knew had any kind of motive, and the chances of this being a random attack and kidnapping are so remote that—”

“So you think Simon killed Meg? That he has Grace now?”

She knows I’m stalling, that I’m skirting round the question. Suddenly it’s like I’m the one being interviewed. I fumble for the elastic band on my wrist, forgetting it has snapped.