A damp chill seeps into my bones from the wooden bench beneath me, and I have to take a deep breath, filling my lungs with cold, crisp air, before I go back to the picture. Katrina looks bewildered by the events, her face smudged with dirt and her long, dark hair tangled down her back, but she looks OK. She doesn’t look hurt. Maybe I could speak to her? The idea makes a spark pop low down in my belly. If Snow does have form for this (which it appears he does), and if he does have something to do with Laurel disappearing, maybe Katrina can help? I’m sure the police will have already spoken to her, but maybe she’ll talk to me. I just want her to tell me that he didn’t hurt her, that he wouldn’t have hurt Laurel. That Laurel will be OK.

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, I scour the internet for information about where Katrina Snow might be now, ignoring the curious glances from dog walkers and passers-by. She might have married and be using a different name . . . she might not even be in Manchester any more . . . what if she’s gone abroad? All these thoughts cross my mind as I try and figure out where to start searching for her. All I can do is start with what I already know.

I type in Katrina Snow, kidnapped, father, Manchester. This brings up another lengthy list of articles, newspaper reports and some downright weird websites, all about what happened, but with no further information on where Katrina might be now. I rub my hands over my face, my eyes feeling dry and tired from staring at the screen for so long, my body stiff and cold from being hunched over the phone screen. She must be here somewhere, I just have to know where to look. I, for one, know how hard it is to try and disappear completely – after all, I’ve never quite managed it, no matter how hard I’ve tried – the articles from Killin prove that.

Wearily, I type her name in again, only her name, nothing else and yawn as I wait for the search results to load. If nothing new comes up then I’ll go home, get warm, and try again later. But maybe . . . if something does show up, I can track down a telephone number . . . Manchester will be difficult for me to get to, but maybe if she’ll speak to me . . . I start to scroll through the links again, not really believing that I’ll find anything, when all of a sudden, I see it. Of course. Excitement starting to fizz in my veins, my heart rate speeding up, I glance furtively around before I click on the link, anxious that someone will approach me before I get a chance to read it. No one is around.