Letting out a slow breath to steady my nerves, I click, and get my first glimpse of Katrina Snow as an adult. She’s dark, like her mother, her skin a deep olive, cheeks flushed red with exertion, her hair sticking to her forehead as she holds out her arms in triumph, her feet flying as she crosses the finish line. Her eyes are closed in the photo, but there is no mistaking the look of elation on her face. Her bib reads KATRINA with a race number underneath pinned to her vest, and I scroll down to read the information beneath the picture. It reads: KATRINA SNOW – 2798 – time: 2:27:15 – Surrey Half Marathon – March 2014.

Surrey Half Marathon. All this time, Katrina Snow hasn’t been in Manchester at all. She’s been in Surrey, close to her father. Now I know where she is, or at least where she was in 2014, it makes it easier for me to carry on searching, and before too long I have found her Facebook profile (mostly private, but there’s access to profile pictures) and finally, an address. It’s on the other side of Oxbury, over towards Chertsey, and I glance at my watch, already knowing what I’m going to do, regardless of whether it’s the right thing or not. I screenshot the information and stretch out my stiff limbs, a buzz of excitement rippling through me, before I hurry away towards the bus station. It’s a sign, I tell myself, as I wait at the bus stop for the next bus towards Chertsey. If she’d still been in Manchester, then maybe . . . but she isn’t. According to the electoral roll she lives near Chertsey, with a man that I am assuming is her partner. So surely, the fact that she is in Surrey is a sign that I should go and see her, speak to her, see if she can tell me anything at all about Mr Snow and what he might have done to Laurel. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

When I get off the bus Google Maps tells me it’s only a three-minute walk to Katrina’s house. As I turn into her road, the clouds that have gathered throughout the morning start to empty and rain begins to splatter the pavement with thick, heavy drops. I hurry my stride a little, not wanting to appear like a bedraggled hobo when I eventually reach her place. Checking the numbers as I walk, I reach number twelve. Katrina’s house.