Hello Everybody. I hope you’re all well. Not sure if any of you still use this group.

I’m wondering if any of you remember Sarah Jones, who worked with us in 2018? If so, do you think you could contact me?

My number is below, and my email. Please contact me on either of these.

I sit back from the table, my heartbeat thundering. For a moment, I press my hands to my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening; it’s so unbelievable that I knew her and that I was the one who was there when she was found. But I can’t change those facts and there’s no way to rewind. I can’t pretend that what happened isn’t real.

I place my hands carefully back on the keyboard and check the draft of my message, once more, twice more, until I am sure there are no spelling mistakes, no errors. And I’m not doing anything illegal, am I? No police investigation to hinder, no work boundaries to breach? I take a deep breath: lungs full before the plunge.

I read it once more and then I hit ‘post’.

I sit there for as long as I can before I have to collect Charlie, refreshing and refreshing the page. When I get back from the school run, I check again, and again through the evening, but there’s nothing.

For the whole week, I don’t hear anything. I try to be patient. At work, I put my personal phone in my desk drawer and try not to look at it, no matter how many times I imagine it rings. I try to limit myself to one check an hour, on the Facebook page, my email, my phone. I try my best to focus on my job. I can’t afford to make any more mistakes.

Every evening, as well, I take out the psychologist’s pages from my bedside table and read them, trying to ground myself. But I go through them so often that words start to blur and I’m not sure if they are quite making sense. I’m not sure these strategies are right for me any more.

Come Friday evening, I’m wrung out with waiting, my emotional tolerance drained. Charlie is playing up; he keeps crossing his eyes, making them roll in his head and laughing whenever I tell him to stop.

‘No look, Mummy, see? It’s funny! Molly showed me how to do it.’

But it isn’t funny to me; in fact, it upsets me so much that I end up shouting at him, and that only triggers a tantrum, which of course only makes everything worse.

‘Stop it!’ he yells. ‘You’re always doing that! Always messing with me, always stopping me having fun!’