Josh stood in the doorframe watching her.

‘It’s okay, I’m doing it now. Can you heat up one of those sausages for Zoe? And Daisy can have a jar of that pumpkin and beef puree.’

Tara waited until she heard the fridge open before she flipped through the four credit cards and took out the Virgin one. Josh had insisted they keep it to two credit cards, but he had no idea how hard it was to manage; he wasn’t the one paying the bills every month.

With the computer on, she avoided looking at their bank account with its mortgage repayments and instead logged into her blog. She hadn’t had time to post lately—too busy with feeding Daisy and trying to get her to settle.

She read through the post she’d written three weeks ago. About the dumb fuck who’d left his baby in the shed, where it had died from heatstroke. She’d ended with a question: Do you think we should make wannabe parents sit a test before they’re allowed to get pregnant? Six comments. That was all. Pathetic. And they were divided down the middle. Three felt sorry for the dumb fuck and three thought he deserved to be locked up forever.

That blog post felt like it had happened in another lifetime. To another person. Someone who could stand on the sidelines and be filled with rage and sadness by the stories in the paper. Someone with the luxury of distance. Now Tara was part of the story. These people online, the commenters, the other bloggers, they didn’t have a clue—this shit actually happened to people like her, real people, not just the trailer trash mothers who brought it upon themselves with their drugs and their multitude of loser boyfriends.

Despite the distraction of the twenty grand and the George Clooney detective, Tara hadn’t stopped shaking since Bella had disappeared. Where the fuck could she be? A tiny vulnerable girl. Zoe’s best friend.

And how could this happen to Lexie, of all people? Little Miss Perfect, skinny and beautiful with her dark movie star looks and classic outfits. Lexie didn’t make the mistake of following the latest trends; she was never seen in clothes that could have come from the local chain stores. While Tara replaced last year’s long boots and coloured jeans with this year’s ankle boots and ripped jeans, Lexie merely seemed to rotate clothes from her wardrobe.

Lexie was always so calm and perfect with Bella. Arriving on time to playgroup every week, with her bloody biscuits. Playing with Bella, laughing with her, reacting to her daughter’s every need. Sitting down to draw pictures with her, dividing up the playdough by colours. Feeding her cut-up strawberries and water. Always water. Never fruit juice or chips or muesli bars.

Lexie didn’t mention money.

She didn’t bitch about her husband.

And she never fucking swore.