She massaged my shoulders as I hunched over on the kitchen stool, desperate for a hug from my mum. Seven years ago, Mum had willed herself to stay alive for our wedding, sitting in the front row, a padded bra over her scarred chest and a smile as bright as the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. A month later, she was gone.

Phoebe had been working in London for the past ten years but she came home when we needed her. My vivacious little sister had the right personality for the world of advertising. She could charm clients, ramp up energy levels on a commercial shoot and get everyone to agree on a campaign. When we were younger, I’d been the outgoing one. At some point, Phoebe had stepped out of my shadow and streaked past me.

The last time I’d spoken to her—before Bella had gone missing—we’d argued. A rare argument but always about the same thing. Men. Phoebe was turning thirty-two—when was she going to get serious about her life? She thought she had all the time in the world to dally: one-night stands, friends with benefits. But she needed to learn from my example. I shouldn’t have put my career first, shouldn’t have left it so late to get pregnant.

Over Skype, I’d glimpsed a gold bracelet on her wrist. A present from a new man?

‘Who is he?’ I’d asked.

‘You won’t want to know about this one,’ she said. ‘He’s married. But he’s leaving his wife.’

I didn’t bother to hide my disapproval. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What happened to supporting the sisterhood?’

‘I thought he was single when we met. It’s been a bloody nightmare.’

‘So dump him. Move on. This goes against everything you believe, Pheebs.’

‘But I really, really like him. And he’s a sex god in bed.’

‘Seriously, Phoebe? He lied to you—that’s a great start to a relationship.’

‘If you want to start talking about great relationships,’ she snapped back, ‘then we can move on to you and Marty. Are you actually speaking to each other? Does he still think he knows what’s best for you without ever asking?’