I start to read a certificate on the wall, squinting in the darkness. He’s been chosen for a football trial. I almost start to cry, then my wake-up call in the form of car headlights outside arrives. I worry for a moment that it’s the police already, that they’ve traced the IP address, but the car passes.

I need to go. I’ll see my children soon, if it kills me. I will. As I stand looking at Charlie I realise that, if I am going even to stand a chance of getting them back, I need to stop all this. I need to get back to Caroline. Mummy. The pull of revenge is strong, like an addiction, but this needs to be over.

I take a last look at my sleeping son then hurry back across the landing and down the stairs. I take made-up Monica’s phone and log it into her Facebook account. Despite myself, I post another status: ‘Hope everyone is enjoying my updates. Show your appreciation by texting me on 07924321875.’ I switch on the location tab, then I wipe my fingerprints from it and hide it under the pile of newspapers beside the landline. It’s Missy’s phone now, sitting in her hallway. The screen lights up with texts immediately. It should be easy for the police to trace to here.

I’m out of the front door and into my car. I drive through my tears with a heavy heart, and under the cover of the trees I struggle to put Frances’s phone together and I realise I’m sobbing as I check her messages. One call from Mum.

‘Pick up, Fran. We’re having a great time, don’t work too hard xx.’

Seven text messages from different people. None from you. Which probably means that you have called her before I did the factory reset to warn her she’s next. I check the local news and still no reports about a tea shop incident. It is the middle of the night, though.

I turn off the location on Monica’s laptop, and when I check her Facebook I cheer up a little. The Pam posts have exploded into outright accusation. Quite a lot of ‘How could you, Jack?’ and a few ‘Is this in your house?’ One I particularly like says: ‘What sort of a man would do this?’ Perfect. It’s been shared far and wide and when I check your profile you’ve made a statement: ‘This is not what it looks like. This is an ongoing police matter. My solicitor is dealing with this.’

No likes. No shares. No one is paying attention to you now. Everyone’s too busy feeling sorry for me. Realising that I’m not mad and I was right all along. There can be no doubt now.