Bright spots of fear starred Paul’s vision as he ran through Kingston’s lamplit streets. His feet thudded out the mantra of his opaque promise to Steph: I will fix this, I will fix this, I will fix this. He arrived, gasping, at Surbiton station, lathered in sweat beneath his coat and jeans, just in time for the last train.

Other passengers shot him wary glances as he stumbled on. He suspected he looked wild-eyed, scarlet-faced, though his reflection in the black windows was translucent and featureless. Realizing his hand was still beading with blood, he pressed his mouth to the cut. He couldn’t forget Steph’s expression when he’d thrown his glass onto the floor. He’d just wanted to break the momentum of her questions, the shrill ringing they set off in his head. But her eyes had blanked with shock and she’d stared at him as if he were a stranger, as if she couldn’t predict what he might do next.

She knew his favorite brand of coffee, his annoying habit of absentmindedly singing a different song from the one they were listening to, where he liked to be touched, and which politicians made him swear at the TV. But a black hole lurked behind all that familiarity, rarely acknowledged, and never in front of Freya, whom he’d always tried to shield from its shadows.

Fix it, the train’s rhythm chanted. Fix it.

Paul got off at Waterloo and paced through the Friday-night streets. Though the evening was chilly, people were drinking outside bars, eating late meals at small crowded tables. He peered at every young blonde woman, earning some outraged frowns, but none was his daughter—none jigged her leg beneath the table with the restlessness Freya got from him.

He stopped dead in front of the police station. Cold blue light from its sign pooled over him.

Could he do this?

He had to.

His body stiffened in resistance as he strode up to the automatic doors. They sighed open at the last instant and seemed to suck him inside.

The foyer was quiet. A smell of cleaning products; a blast of hot air from the ceiling vents. Paul approached the desk, conscious of the sheen of drying sweat on his forehead. The officer behind the counter had a rugby player’s build but a doughy, almost babyish face.

“I need to see DI Glover.” He was still based there, Paul was certain of that much. He sent Christmas cards, the odd email, though Paul usually threw away the cards, deleted the messages.

The desk officer cocked his head. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“Tell him it’s Paul Harlow. He’ll know me.”

“Have you got any ID?”

He slid out his wallet, offering his driver’s license. The officer picked up a phone. “I’ll try him. He may have gone home.”