Again, the word was a command to be obeyed. He gripped my other shoulder—huge hands skewering me in one position. His eyes on me, inspecting every inch of me. My body went limp and I greeted the blackness with relief.

‘Open your eyes, Lexie.’

The same insistent voice. Had he moved me? His dark shape seemed big enough to carry a grown woman. Keep my eyes closed. Pretend I’m dead. I want to be dead without Bella.

‘Lexie, take a deep breath and open your eyes. Your mobile keeps ringing. You need to answer it.’

Slowly, I did as he said. We were still on the same patch of grass, streetlights nearby. My phone was buzzing.

‘Great, you’re okay,’ the hulking shape smiled. ‘I think you were having a panic attack.’

‘My sister …’ I pointed at the phone.

He answered it without hesitation.

‘This is Lexie’s phone. I’m Lucas Lawrence. How may I help?’

Lucas. Imogen’s husband. The soldier. He wrapped his burly hand around my elbow and guided me through the gloom.

On the screen, Phoebe was a fuzzy image of white: white sheets, white gown, white room, white face. Apart from her dark ponytail. When Bella was a baby, I had often accidentally called her Phoebe. My little sister, my daughter, so alike. I was the odd one out.

‘How’s the pain?’ I asked.

‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it.’ My long-suffering sister putting me first again. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

I could see the discomfort in the tightness around her mouth, the careful way in which she held the phone. Despite her reassurances that she’d come as quickly as possible, she wouldn’t be getting on a plane any time soon. The first ACL reconstruction surgery was supposed to be straightforward, but afterwards Phoebe hadn’t been able to bend her knee. The surgeon promised that this second operation, along with aggressive physical therapy, would improve her mobility. Phoebe needed her knee for her next ski trip in January. She’d planned to come to us for Christmas Day, we’d go together to see Dad after New Year, then she’d fly to Japan for a week. Of course, she’d torn the ligament while she was skiing. That trip had been a weekend in France.

‘There’s no news,’ I told her. ‘They haven’t found a single clue—apart from the wizard hat in the laneway. It makes no sense.’

‘They’ll find her,’ Phoebe said. ‘They will. And she can open the birthday present from me early. I’ve already sent it.’

Next Friday, Bella would turn four years old. She’d been talking about her ‘birfday’ for months. Tonight, I should be at home, wrapping presents and preparing lolly bags while she slept unaware upstairs in her warm bed.

The tears came streaming down my cheeks, yet again, and Phoebe blew me a kiss.