Nick and Darcy have already eaten breakfast omelettes and left for nursery. Cheddar cheese omelette with crunched-up cornflakes for Darcy; spinach, feta and tomato for Nick.

Omelette is Nick’s speciality, and the only thing he can cook well. He makes omelette for himself and Darcy every morning, and sometimes for lunch and dinner too.

‘Liberty?’

I carry Liberty’s fruit plate to the table and adjust slices of fruit to neaten the display. I’ve cut the kiwi, mango and strawberries to look like the artist Frida Kahlo, with mango for the face and slivered grapes for eyebrows. Liberty loves Frida, and I love doing fun little things like this for Liberty. Showing my love however I can.

‘Sweetheart?’ I call. ‘Rise and shine. You’ll be late.’

Still no answer.

I climb Liberty’s staircase, the bare wood smooth and warm under my feet. I am grateful for this house. There was a time I never believed I’d have a life like this. Our own land. A yoga room. Study. Library. And high, high gates all around.

‘Liberty?’

I knock on my daughter’s door.

‘Honey?’

It’s unlike Liberty not to answer, but the fight last night was pretty bad.

I push the door open, listening.

There’s nothing – no sound, no grumbling, no shower running. Skywalker doesn’t come running to greet me.

Liberty’s bedroom is dark, but the bed has been made. Liberty always makes her bed the moment she gets up, even when she’s not well.

Where is she, then? And where is Skywalker?

I stroke the cotton duvet, feeling for Liberty in the gloom, but find nothing – no soft, warm body.

‘Liberty?’

The ensuite door is slightly open, but no light spills out.

Flicking on the bedroom light, I feel uneasy.

I start to rationalize.

She must have gone running in the grounds, maybe she’s training Skywalker outside, maybe, maybe …

But things are missing. Liberty’s miniature turtle bookmark – the one she keeps on her desk for good luck. Her cherry-red DM boots.

I open her built-in closet, heart racing.

Some clothes are gone and there’s a big, gaping hole where her canvas army backpack usually sits.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. Immobilized by fear.

‘Liberty, please,’ I say, voice weak. ‘If you’re here … it’s not funny.’

I go to Liberty’s ensuite again. Maybe she’s hiding in the dark. Playing a trick on me. But when I pull the light cord, flickering light shows me an empty room. Liberty’s bamboo toothbrush has gone. Her hairbrush too.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Now I’m tearing downstairs, screaming over and over again:

‘Liberty! Liberty!’

The chain is off the backdoor. It’s never off. I latch it every night. Every single night. It’s part of my routine or, as Nick calls it, my OCD.