I perch on the edge of the armchair, cradling my mug of tea. ‘Rosamund and Elise have built a great snowman,’ I say, before taking a sip.

He smiles. ‘You used to love the snow,’ he says. ‘Lark not so much. She used to cry if her hands got too cold.’ I hear a crack in his voice. ‘And Thomas used to throw snowballs at me when I came home from work.’

I laugh. ‘I remember,’ I say, recalling the small boy who would run like the wind when Dad chased him.

‘Do you think we should head for home today?’ I say, blowing the steam from my drink.

‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’ He picks up his coffee.

‘There’s nothing here, Dad. We’re chasing shadows.’

He nods. ‘But I’m not sure how the roads will be this morning. It’s been snowing through the night.’ He picks up the remote control and flicks on the TV. ‘Let’s see what’s happening in this area, shall we?’

We wait a while for the local weather forecast, before a chirpy young woman tells us the local roads are blocked until they can get a snowplough out. We’re stuck here, and my heart sinks.

‘Maybe it’s fate.’ Dad flicks off the TV, and puts the remotes on the table. ‘Maybe we are meant to be here. Maybe the fact we can’t leave means we will discover something.’

I can’t find the words I want to say, without extinguishing his hopes further, so I stay silent, biting the inside of my mouth and tasting blood. A crushing foreboding settles on my shoulders.

What if it was a stranger who took Lark?

What if it wasn’t Jackson, after all?

What if whoever took Lark is back, or never left?

What if they made the footprints in the snow last night? Looked in the window at Elise, while wearing a mask?

Dad picks up his Kindle, and I rise, slip on my padded jacket, bobble hat and boots, and take my tea onto the snowy porch at the front of the cottage.

A milky sun is rising, casting a bright light over a shimmering sheet of untouched snow. The footprints we saw on our way home last night have gone – due to last night’s snowfall – though it’s not falling now.

I’m lost in thought, my nose and fingertips tingling as I sip my tea, when I hear someone call my name.

It’s Finn, wearing winter running gear and a beanie hat and scarf. He isn’t exactly running, more stomping through the snow. ‘Morning,’ I call back, raising my hand, hoping he won’t hate me for the way I behaved the night before. ‘Not the best conditions for a run.’