“Zurich,” I say.

“Terry, talk to me. What is it? Is it Iris?”

“Yes.”

“Has she...”

“We had a big fight. I said horrible things to her. And she left. And now I can’t find her.”

Brendan doesn’t say anything and I think maybe the line’s been disconnected. Then he says, “Iris has an iPhone, doesn’t she?”

“No, she has a Samsung. Why?”

“Oh, I just thought I could try looking for her with that ‘findmyiphone’ app.”

“She has an iPad. Would that work?”

“Yes. Do you know her email address?”

“Why?”

“Just humor me, okay?”

“[email protected].”

“Two? Hard to imagine there’s more than one of her.”

“There isn’t.”

“I know. I was just trying to...never mind. Now, do you have any idea what her password might be?”

“I think she uses the same password for everything.”

“What is it?”

“smkcuf66.”

“What?”

“It’s fuck MS spelled backwards and her lucky number. Twice.”

“Okay. Hang on a sec.”

In the background, I hear the clickedy-click of Brendan’s fingers across the keyboard of his laptop. The typing pool at the insurance company was disbanded long ago. Brendan adapted better than I would have imagined.

Dad wanders about the hotel room, picking things up and putting them down, glancing at me at intervals as if he’s seen me somewhere before but can’t quite place me.

“She’s at the Intercontinental,” Brendan says.

“What?” I jump up, adrenaline fizzing through my body.

“She’s at the—”

“But so am I! I’m at the Intercontinental.” Iris could be in the room beside me. Next-door neighbors. She could be that close.

“Hang on a minute,” I say to Brendan, setting my mobile on the bed and picking up the phone on the bedside locker. I ring reception.

“Hello, this is Terry. From...” I can’t remember my room number.

“Hello, Ms. Shepherd, I trust you are settling in well?” Luxury has impeccable manners and excellent technology, but in spite of these things, there is no reservation for an Iris Armstrong.

Or a Vera Armstrong. Or a Terry Armstrong. Or an Iris Shepherd. Or a Vera Keogh.

Or anyone who answers my description of Iris.

I hang up and lean against the wall, close my eyes.

THINK.

From the bed, the tinny sound of Brendan’s faraway voice.

I reach for it. “She’s not here,” I say.

“Well, her iPad is,” says Brendan.

“It must be in the car.” I wait for him to tell me how it’s not best practice to keep valuables in the car, but he doesn’t.

Silence down the phone. Then a sigh. “I’m sorry, Terry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

“No, but...”

“It’s my fault.”

“It’s not a question of fault.”

“I’d better go,” I say. Then I remember. “Wait. Are the girls okay?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all...fine here.”

“Thanks, Brendan. For your help.”

“I wasn’t very helpful.”

“You tried. Thank you.”

“Let me know how...”

“I will.”

I check my watch. Nearly five o’clock. By now, Iris will be in possession of her prescription. Will have filled it.