I’ve never been a man to pray. I’ve only ever asked for divine help once before – to no avail. And yet I find myself looking to the ceiling. If there is such a thing as God, as some higher power who can intervene, let them be listening to me now. Let me find her. Let her be here, in mind as in body. Let this be okay.

I twist the handle and push the door open, my eyes closed, my head bowed. I feel like glass, instantly breakable.

But there’s nothing. Her room is empty.

Relief almost drowns me. I let out an audible breath, stuffing my hands in my pockets and leaning against the door frame. In my pockets, my hands meet cool paper. I pull it out. The envelope from yesterday. There was no call to stop me posting this. No reason given as to why I should not. I study it, front and back. I hold it up to the window to see if I can see what’s inside. I step closer to the light for a better look, turning it over and reading the name and address on the front.

I pick out my phone and dial Kat.

‘Rhys?’

‘Tell them not to waste time, she’s not here.’

‘What?’

‘I came round, I couldn’t just sit and wait. She’s not here so tell them not to waste time trying.’

‘Okay. Okay. But Rhys, you know you shouldn’t have—’

‘I had to.’

‘Rhys…’ I hear her talking in the background. ‘Rhys, I’ve got to go.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘I’ll call you if we hear anything.’

She hangs up and I look at the letter. I should have told her. I should take it to her. Or I could cut out the middleman and take it straight to its recipient.

Mr James Grey. An address in the Lakes… Maybe that’s where Susan is headed. I don’t think about it anymore. I hurry down the stairs, lock up her house, replace the key in the jar and the jar in the garden. Then I run back to my car and make for the Lakes.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

RHYS

Foot pressed down, I drive. Past Mum’s, eyes pinned forward, into Derbyshire; heading north.

Summer tourists slowly drive the twists up and over the hills and I have to stop myself taking risks to overtake. I’m no more benefit to her dead than she is to me. Derwent Dam glistens in the morning sun. The trees gradually give way to stretches of road, which eventually wind round towards Manchester in all its grey and blustery glory. The envelope rests on the passenger seat. Every now and then I reach out to it, making sure it’s still there. Keeping it safe.

Some two and a half hours later, the landscape shifts as I pull off the motorway. Mountains rise from the horizon, some with tips sharp against the summer sky, others, further away, disappearing in a haze. I pick up the signs for Windermere, eventually catching sight of its steel-grey water up ahead. I roll down the window, taking in air much cleaner than home.