But it was his child lying there in an incubator in the NICU, ventilated, sedated to stop the constant seizures that had his arms and legs twitching.

Marty had sat in the NICU, almost as unresponsive as his son. Lexie had wailed but Marty was silent. How could he have let this happen to his own baby? He’d saved hundreds of other children.

Staring at the ventilator, Marty had waited for the moment when Archie would die.

But his son didn’t die that night.

Nor the next.

The NICU team worked hard to keep Archie alive. Later, he wondered if they’d tried especially hard because Marty was one of them. Finally, Archie came off the ventilator and breathed—with difficulty—on his own. At last, Marty could cuddle his son in his arms.

‘Good lungs,’ the neonatal nurse had said, smiling down at Archie.

But not a good prognosis. The medical team had condemned his son to life.

Eventually they had taken him home. Lexie couldn’t comprehend their son’s future, but he could. Marty had seen it—albeit rarely—in a few patients. Her optimism made him shrink into himself. She didn’t understand. Their son wouldn’t meet any of the baby milestones. From the simplest reflex, like grasping his father’s little finger and swallowing, to the biggest: he would never crawl nor walk nor talk.

Marty knew the system—he organised home nurses and physio appointments for Archie, support group meetings for Lexie. Then he’d gone back to work. To care for other people’s children.

Five months later, the unthinkable happened: Lexie fell pregnant. But unlike with Archie’s pregnancy, she was sick. Hyperemesis gravidarum. He’d come home to find Archie fitting in his cot and poor Lexie vomiting in the bathroom. Ironically, it was Yvette Tobin, the physio he’d hired for her compassion, who told the police and the media that Archie’s death was suspicious. Yvette had aimed to crucify them. Had her compassion been nothing but an act?

Marty mopped his face with a tissue, scrunched it up and placed it in the middle console.

Mel.

Elissa.

He’d ring the volunteer office first. Marty had met Amala when he’d treated her son for continuous, unexplained stomach pains. She’d left a message of support on hearing that Bella was missing.

‘I was wondering if you could help me with a quick query, Amala. It’s about one of our volunteers—Elissa Wight.’

‘Of course, Dr Parker. Let me just bring up the file.’ Silence, then: ‘Do you spell it W-h-i-t-e?’

‘No, W-i-g-h-t.’

Another silence. ‘Sorry, that name isn’t coming up on the database. Does she have a different legal name?’

He remembered the name on the playgroup contact list.

‘Can you see if she’s listed under Melissa Wainwright?’

The faint tapping of fingers on a keyboard. ‘Hmm, nothing under that name either.’