In the end I did take a tablet—not an antidepressant but a sleeping tablet to knock me out. And I dreamt. A family of children on a picnic rug, Bella surrounded by brothers and sisters. Marty’s wish coming true in my dream. One of the boys was blowing out the candles on a rocket-shaped cake. Not Bella’s birthday but the boy’s. ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ Bella cried, throwing her arms into the air. The children hooted on their party blowers, aiming the long paper tails at each other’s cheeks. The birthday boy handed me blue paper plates and I cut the chocolate cake, piece by piece. As the boy passed the plates to his siblings, I leant over and kissed his forehead. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

Something woke me—a door slamming downstairs.

Happy birthday, darling. Half asleep, I whispered the words, still feeling the boy’s fringe tickling my nose.

Opening my eyes, I saw the bedroom. In this house, in this world. I yearned for those unknown children with Bella, yearned to climb back into that dream. But I couldn’t. My Tinker Bell wasn’t safe. I thumped my head against the pillow. The clock said 11 am. How could I have slept for so long when Bella was missing?

I pulled on clean jeans and an old red top, and peered out of the window to check it wasn’t raining on my little girl. The sun shone with barely a cloud in the sky, but three news vans were parked outside our house. A knot of reporters stood together, some clutching sandwiches and coffee, others talking on their mobiles. One must have seen movement at the window and they all looked up at the same time. Two swung their large cameras onto their shoulders, directing them at my bedroom. I was frozen against the windowsill. Staring at them staring at me.

Bella must be dead.

Standing there, I groaned.

The same guttural sound I’d uttered during her birth.

And then I ran. Away from the cameras, down the corridor, down the stairs, along the hallway, into the kitchen. Marty was sitting at the dining table, his tired, furrowed face focusing on the laptop screen. As I scurried into the room, he jumped up and came to me.

‘Lexie, what’s wrong?’

‘The news crews! Why are they here? Have they found her?’

‘No, no. No news. I was at the playgroup an hour ago and spoke to the police. Nothing to report.’

A moment of relief. Relief that she wasn’t dead. But not yet found.

‘Why are the media vans out the front?’

‘That detective must have interviewed Nurse Natalie yesterday. As we expected, she went straight to the Telegraph. Now, it’s everywhere.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘All over the internet, the news, everywhere.’