‘A friend,’ I say, the word sticking in my throat this time, trying to feign nonchalance to hide the reality of my emotions, my uncertainty, confusion and fear. ‘I’ve been worried too,’ I say, looking at my watch then to her house, anything to break eye contact with him.

The neighbour nods, then looks at his own watch. ‘I’ll be late for work. Tell her to shout if we can do anything,’ he offers, climbing into his car, but not before taking another good look at my van.

‘I will, cheers. Oh, traffic – it’s mental, stacked up if you’re off into town.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, avoid Woodseats and Queens Road if you can. Not sure what’s happened.’

‘Right, cheers.’

He gets into his van, turning left out of the drive with a hesitant thumbs up in my direction. I wait until I can’t hear his car anymore then unlatch the gate to Susan’s drive. With each step, my heart beats faster until I reach her door. I rub my chest to try and massage the panic into submission. ‘Come on,’ I say, then focus, knock and wait.

Nothing.

I try again, knocking louder and trying the bell too. It rings somewhere in the house, distant and broken. Like me. Like her.

Still nothing. This was easier when I had a key.

I look around at mid-morning suburbia. There’s no movement. No cars, no sounds of commuter traffic.

Think. Think.

When I was a kid, Mum used to hide a key to our house in the back garden. I check for evidence of any more neighbours, or the postman, before moving around the side of her house and into the back garden. I look around the overgrown flowerbeds, plants heavy on earthy soil. I find nothing. Then I spot an overgrown Fatsia in the corner, its large lime-green leaves swollen and hanging low over a drystone wall between patio and lawn. Lifting the leaves, I peer under: bingo. A muddy jar nestles in the undergrowth. I pull it from the grasp of the weeds. A single key on a familiar, albeit dirty, pink ribbon slides and rattles inside. The scent of blooming roses hangs heavy in the air as I strain at the screw top and free the key. I look between it and the back door. Maybe I should wait. Kat did say she’d call the police.

And then I remember Susan’s face when she first saw me. And the touch of her hand as she reached out to me. The notes. The connection. The newspaper clipping and my adoption file. The chance that if I leave it, by the time they get here it’ll be too late. And then I’ll never know the truth.

I’ve been too late before.

I fit the key into the lock, wrestling with it until it opens. Taking a deep breath, I push the door. A draught excluder sweeps across the floor, catching on folded newspaper acting as a doormat. I close the door again and turn to face the stillness of her kitchen: again, nothing’s changed. Everything in her house appears to be just as we left it. As she left it. I move from kitchen to dining room and through to the lounge, careful not to leave my mark or make a mess. Careful to check each piece of her home, to try and work out if it might have moved. I pull at the lounge door and it clicks open, just as it did when we first came here. I look back over my shoulder, seeing nothing but a shaft of light with dancing dust. ‘Susan?’ I say gently, at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you okay? Are you here?’ I don’t want to frighten her, if she is. ‘Susan?’ There’s no sound, no movement, no response. I head upstairs, my heartbeat quickening, each breath more difficult than the last. My throat is sore from nerves. The stairs squeak as I get to the top and I hold on to the banister to steady myself. I stand by her bedroom door.