Emma beckoned her into her flat. It was less than half the size of theirs but seemed to have twice the amount of stuff. Steph often wished for more storage space for all Freya’s sports equipment, Paul’s vinyl that he never listened to, her own books she never gave away. But Emma’s living room heaved with boxes, as if she’d never unpacked or was preparing to move, as well as an old sewing machine, scattered piles of fabric and thread, and what looked like a giant wine rack full of shoes. There was a noise just audible in the background, like a turning wheel . . . A hamster?

Steph was sure a man used to live here with Emma. Or maybe still did? She’d never actually met him, only heard the muffled back-and-forth of their voices, and glimpsed them together sometimes on the street.

“Were you at home yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes . . .” Emma perched on her sofa and fiddled with the turquoise tassels of a throw, gesturing for Steph to sit down too. “I remember thinking the street felt quiet. The day seemed to drag.”

“What about before that? Had you noticed anyone hanging around? Ever seen Freya with anyone who seemed . . . ?” She shut her eyes at the horror of the questions, the inescapable trains of thought.

“No, nothing like that.” Emma sounded pained too. Steph wondered what she must think of her. Who could let this happen to her child? What kind of mother had to ask a neighbor, pretty much a stranger, whether she knew things about her daughter?

“Who saw her last?” Emma asked.

“We don’t know exactly,” Steph admitted, with another wrench. “She was in her final lesson of the day but the police can’t interview the teacher until first thing tomorrow.” It was excruciating having to work with other people’s schedules when she’d been catapulted into this new sense of time. Even the police search, which had been launched within half an hour of them registering Freya as missing, was at the mercy of daylight. Right now, Steph knew, the team was trawling the limited CCTV footage from around Freya’s school and bus stop.

“And her phone’s off?”

“Yes. She’s normally glued to it.”

As if on cue, a phone beeped. Steph’s heart vaulted and she reached into her pocket before her brain could register that the chime wasn’t one of hers. Still she opened her messages, WhatsApp, emails. Emma sheepishly picked up her own mobile.

“Sorry, that’s me.” She moved to put it aside without reading the message, but seemed to change her mind, tapping the screen and frowning with distraction. Steph felt a vicious slash of jealousy. What is it, Emma? Hair appointment canceled? Friend wants to meet at a pub you don’t really like? Boyfriend trouble? She knew she was being unfair, but even the worst of other people’s problems were enviable to her now.