This year, now that we were back in Australia, my hope had been that we’d visit his grave as a family, for his fifth birthday. But no, Marty had shut down that idea. Why didn’t he understand that it would have helped? That we needed to acknowledge it. Even though the grief would have come rushing back in waves, the guilt threatening to flatten me. If he could, Marty would fast-forward through September to our daughter’s birthday at the end.

But I had my own way of remembering Archie, my beautiful little boy.

Outside was pitch-black now, the moon hidden by the clouds. Taking a deep breath, I clicked open the news stream on my mobile. No new information on Bella. Then I googled her name on the web. The search results popped up: Psychic ‘sees’ Bella in England; Ex-neighbour tells all; Allegations of child abuse by hospital staff; Bella Parker theories on disappearance; Bring Bella home for her birthday.

Slamming the phone down on the benchtop, I headed straight to the wine rack. My hands were on the bottle, fingers curled around the seductive cool glass, twisting the screw top, pouring the red liquid into a glass, smelling its richness, ready for the first drop on my tongue.

No.

I tipped the glass into the sink, turned on the hot water to dilute the aroma. Upended the whole bottle, watched the liquid glug, glug, glug down into the plug hole.

I’ll call Phoebe, she’ll calm me down.

The phone rang out. Was she having a shower or strengthening her muscles in physio?

The other two mums hadn’t called me today: Julia and Tara. My daughter had gone missing on their watch. How dare they blank me now? It was 10 pm—were they asleep or watching TV while listening to the soft snores of their children safely tucked up in bed? I pressed some numbers quickly. My first choice—Julia—didn’t answer. Perhaps she switched her phone off at night. How nice for her not to be desperately waiting for a phone call. To dream without a care in the world, without taking responsibility for her negligence. I stabbed at my mobile again, a ringing tone, then a sleepy voice on the end.

‘Hello?’

‘Tara, it’s Lexie.’ I was almost shouting at her.

‘Do you have some news?’ She was suddenly alert.

‘No,’ I snarled. ‘We’re still searching. Is your husband out there?’

‘No, not tonight.’

‘Why not?’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘Is he out drinking on a boys’ night?’

‘Of course not. He had to go to Adelaide for a meeting down there. But he did come in for the search this morning.’

‘But now he’s left and flown off to Adelaide.’

‘I’m sorry, Lexie, it was booked months ago. It’s an annual talkfest.’

At least Tara sounded apologetic. But then she kept going …