I mean, I know she’s worried about Tarkie; I know I need to cut her some slack. It’s just…hard.

“Whatever,” says Suze brusquely. And without looking at me, she heads back to the table. As I follow her, Alicia Bitch Long-legs glances up and sweeps disdainful eyes over me. I still can’t quite believe she’s come on this trip. Alicia Bitch Long-legs, my least favorite person in the world.

I should say, Alicia Merrelle. That’s her name now, ever since she married Wilton Merrelle, founder of the famous yoga and rehab center Golden Peace. It’s a massive complex, with classes and a gift shop, and I used to be quite a fan. Well, we were all fans. Until Tarquin started going there all the time to hang out with Bryce and told Suze she was “toxic” and frankly became a bit weird. (I should say: a bit weirder. He’s never exactly been the most normal knife in the drawer, old Tarkie.)

It was Alicia who discovered they were heading to Vegas. It was Alicia who brought a chiller full of coconut water for the RV. Alicia’s the heroine of the hour. But I’m still wary of her. Alicia has been my bête noire ever since I first knew her, years ago, before I was married. She’s tried to wreck my life; she’s tried to wreck Luke’s life; she’s put me down at every opportunity and made me feel small and stupid. Now she says that’s all in the past and we should forget it and she’s moved on. But, I’m sorry, I can’t trust her, I just can’t.

“I was thinking,” I say, trying to sound businesslike. “We need to make a proper plan.” I get a pen and notebook from my bag, write PLAN in big letters, and put it on the table for everyone to see. “Let’s go over the facts.”

“Your dad has dragged the other two off on some mission to do with his past,” says Suze. “But you don’t know what, because you didn’t ask him.” With that, she shoots me a familiar accusing look.

“I know,” I say humbly. “I’m sorry.”

I should have talked to my dad more. If I could turn back time, I’d do everything differently, of course I would, of course I would. But I can’t. All I can do is try to make up for it now.

“So let’s recap what we do know,” I say, trying to stay upbeat. “Graham Bloomwood came to the United States in 1972. He toured around with three American friends: Brent, Corey, and Raymond. And they followed this route.” I open Dad’s map and put it down with a flourish. “Exhibit A.”

We all look at the map for the millionth time. It’s a very basic road map, old and yellowed, with a red Biro route drawn in. It doesn’t really help us, in truth, but we all keep staring at it, just in case. I searched my dad’s room after he disappeared with Tarkie, and this is all I found, apart from an old magazine.