I didn’t have time to apologise.

‘Have you seen a little girl? Her name’s Bella. She’s about the same height as your son. Pink coat. Her arm is in a cast.’

‘No.’ The mother brought her pram closer. A neat triangle of mother, toddler and baby. ‘You’ve lost your daughter? Here? In Merrigang?’

‘Yes. If you see her, please call the police.’

The mother’s face, which had been rosy in the outdoor air, turned pale.

After dashing back to the car, I caught a glimpse of the woman through the windscreen. Packing up her kids, taking them home and locking the doors. She wouldn’t see Bella.

‘Hurry up, keep driving,’ I snapped at Marty. ‘Go to the end here and then back down the other way.’

The car crawled along the street in silence. Marty scanning one side and me the other.

‘Has anyone checked the house?’

Such an obvious thought.

‘Someone might have found her lost and dropped her home.’

A spark of hope flared inside me, happy butterflies fluttering into my churning stomach. People were friendly in Merrigang; they knew each other. It was a village community, not a big city like Manchester or Sydney. Of course, someone would drop her home if they found her. Bella knew the name of our street. She couldn’t remember the number but she could point out our house.

‘Go! Fast!’

Two minutes later we were home. No other car in the driveway, no Bella sitting at the front door. I raced through the side gate around to the back. Was my little Tinker Bell out here in the fairy garden, talking to her favourite fairy statue and asking when Mummy would be back? At a quick glance, I couldn’t see her in the garden, but perhaps she was scared and hiding.

‘Bella, it’s Mummy,’ I cried as I bolted from bush to bush. The fairy garden, the back deck, the outdoor chairs, the gum tree, the wooden bench, the grass play area, the sandpit in the blue shell. Empty. No little girl hiding behind the rainwater tank either. Then I realised: she must be inside the lean-to shelter which our gardener had helped her build a few weeks ago. Deirdre had been cutting back one of the trees close to the garage and Bella insisted they could use the branches to make a cubbyhouse. Leafy branches slanted against the fence at the bottom of our block. She was in there. She must be.

At the end of our garden snaked the wire fence and beyond—paddocks, horses, grass and gum trees. Only one section was obscured. The lean-to.

Running, running, running. The distance to the fence had grown longer, miles and miles it seemed. I sprinted past the trampoline and the vegie patch, stumbled in a divot. Thighs burning, throat dry, I dared not call her name. She would be there. She had to be there.