My palms are clammy as I stand at the front door, knowing that just a piece of wood separates me from my apparent nemesis. I clench and unclench my hands to distract from the sudden dryness in my mouth and swallow to ease the tickle in the back of my throat.

The chrome knocker glints in the sunlight and as I raise my arm slowly towards it, I can’t stop the sudden vision of my sister being on the other side of the door.

I shake my head in an effort to dislodge the preposterous thought as I lift the heavy ring, holding it high for just one second longer to ask myself if I’m definitely doing the right thing. You have no other choice, comes another voice from within, as I let go and watch it fall, like a hammer.

I wait for a dog to bark or the marching of feet down the hallway. But the house stands in complete silence. I ring once more, but still there’s nothing, and I peer through the front window between the slats of the wooden blinds, into a perfectly appointed living room with no signs of life.

The two sofas, one navy and one cream, look pristine, the scatter cushions expertly arranged and plumped. Horse & Hound magazines sit comfortably alongside Country Homes & Interiors, fanned out on the coffee table. And there’s an abundance of framed photos on the consoles in the alcoves either side of the fireplace. I shield my eyes to get a better look, but the light from the sun throws shadows across both displays. Though in the larger frames, I can definitely make out three children against a white background, as if part of a studio shoot. Another shows a young man awkwardly posing in a sash and mortarboard, no doubt eager to throw it up in the air and leave everything it represents behind. I fervently scan for a photo that shows me who the parents in this family are, but they’re either too small to see or just don’t exist.

I go to the house next door, whose front room is a hive of activity with the TV on and a woodwind instrument being played badly.

A cheery-looking woman comes to the door, but the tea towel in her hands tells me she’s right in the middle of something.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ I say. ‘But I was hoping to find the Talbots next door. I’ve been knocking, but there’s no response.’

Her face changes. ‘Are you the police?’ she asks.

I’m suddenly at a loss for breath, and reach out surreptitiously to steady myself against the porch wall.

‘Y-yes,’ I say, unconvincingly.

‘You’ve just missed her,’ she says.

‘Ah, that’s a shame,’ I say.

‘Is there any news?’ she asks, sensing an opportunity to get the inside scoop. ‘Have they found Michael yet?’