“Just the usual . . .” Paul was about to elaborate, picturing Steph in her PJ bottoms, reading in a halo of light from a lamp; Freya strapping an ice pack to her knee and dripping water all over the sofa; himself beside them trying to be in the moment, in the warmth of his home.

Instead he gave a vague smile and wished Ollie a pleasant evening.

Let them wonder.

—

In his car, he checked his phone. There were three voicemails from Steph, and he expected a message about picking up milk or bread, perhaps cherry-flavored Lucozade, which Freya treated like a necessity. It was a surprise to hear Steph’s higher-than-normal voice asking if he’d heard from Freya. Paul returned the call but the line was busy, so he tossed his mobile into the drinks holder, frowning at the time: 20:10. He’d get home as quickly as he could. Freya was probably back by now, in the doghouse for breaking a cardinal rule.

The traffic on the fringes of London felt like a personal insult. No matter how late he left work, every evening was a war of lane-changing and gambling on shortcuts. Sometimes he liked the challenge. Whenever Freya was in the car he’d treat her to a commentary of his traffic predictions and genius work-arounds, not that she was remotely impressed. Now, though, he wished he could cut through the congestion with a wailing siren. When he finally reached his street, he glimpsed Steph’s familiar silhouette behind their curtains. If she was glued to the window, did that mean Freya wasn’t back? He parked behind the driving instructor’s car and sprinted inside.

There were no smells of cooking or murmurs of TV, no sounds of Steph and Freya chatting or calling out questionable song requests for Spotify. The apartment was quiet and dim: The many lamps that Steph usually switched on in the evenings were dark.

She turned from the window, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. “I know she’s practically an adult, but . . .”

Paul drew her in, her head slotting below his chin, the back of her hair giving off a strange heat. They didn’t melt against each other for a few seconds of mutual rest, like they often would after a long day. Steph’s body was rigid.

“Her phone’s going straight to voicemail,” she said to his chest. “None of her friends have heard from her—the ones I’ve spoken to, anyway.”

Paul swallowed. “When did she leave school?”

“Normal time, far as I can tell. I’ve not actually been able to contact anyone who was in her last lesson with her. But the register says she was there, and her other friends reckon she usually leaves pretty sharpish for the bus. I spoke to Chris too—everything was normal with her driving lesson. She didn’t mention any plans for after school to him.”

“Snapchat? Instagram? Whatever she uses these days?”

“No clues.”