He stops turning over the letter and looks at me.

‘Susan Smith,’ I repeat. ‘Did you know a girl called Susan Smith?’

He studies my face, as I try to study his. He looks older than I first thought. His hair is greying at the sides; hazel eyes hide behind metal-framed glasses.

‘Are you okay down there, Jim?’ calls a voice.

‘Yes, love, fine. I’ll be up in a minute.’ He pulls the door firmly closed behind him as he moves down the steps. I make way until we’re level. Eye to eye. That’s when the next thing hits me: this man has a wife, a family, a job and a home. He has a dog that is still sniffing around my feet and a look that says Susan Smith is a lifetime ago and I’ve just made a grave error in judgement.

I lean against the side of his house, exhausted.

‘Do you know something,’ I say, dropping down till I’m crouching, my hand ruffling my hair. ‘I came here convinced I was doing the right thing.’ I laugh. ‘I had a crisis in confidence by the lake, you know, almost turned back…’ I lift my head towards the sky. ‘And I would have done, had I had any phone signal to call the hospital. I should have listened to myself.’ James steps back and sits down on the step, pulling the dog away from me and onto his lap. ‘My brother died,’ I explain. ‘Six months ago. He…’ I stop, ducking out of saying the truth out loud as usual. ‘He died.’ I look across at the letter in James’s hands. The confidence of minutes ago, the clarity, it’s all disintegrated, replaced by a cold wash of fear. The same wash of fear I felt when I woke up beside Michelle. The same wash of fear I felt when I left Mum after she told me about Derek. A trio of bad decisions.

I push myself back up again, preparing to leave. ‘I thought this would solve it all, you know. That I’d deliver that letter, you’d read it, tell us where she was and we’d find her. All ready to embrace the elusive happy ever after. If it wasn’t so painfully real, I’d laugh at my own stupidity.’

I kick at the ground. An army of ants skirt the edge of the concrete path, following each other across a crack and down the side of the path, out of sight. Do they question what they’re doing, or just head onwards, blindly?‘Susan Smith was a long time ago.’ He stands, handing me back the letter as he turns away. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help. But I do hope you find her.’ He drops the dog back inside the porch and closes the door behind him.

‘Mr Grey,’ I shout through the glass. ‘James…’ He pauses on the threshold of his inner door, his back towards me. ‘Take it. She wrote it for you.’

I drop it through the letterbox, then turn and head back to my van.