Yvette had suggested Freya’s disappearance might be unconnected to his past. In a different way from how Tom Glover had phrased it, with different motives, Paul hoped—but still with no effect. The symmetry between then and now was beginning to consume him. Yet he was no closer to tracing his daughter, to making sure she never became one of the tragic unfound.

—

As soon as he got home, he smelled the Elizabeth Arden perfume his mum had worn for years, which Paul bought her unimaginatively every birthday. The scent was a burst of short-lived comfort. He could hear his parents’ voices from the spare room—so familiar, and sounding upset—but he went first into the living room, looking for Steph.

It was empty. He stared at the papers scattered on the coffee table. Lists of names and phone numbers with ticks or crosses next to them. An annotated timeline in his dad’s writing: 7:50 left for school (Steph waved her off, gave driving lesson money); 8:45 met Zadie outside gates (normal); 1 p.m. driving lesson; 2 p.m. CW dropped her off (nobody saw); 2‒3 p.m. free period (unclear whether anybody saw her); 3 p.m. maybe not in last lesson (register in doubt). A flipbook of Freya’s last-known movements seemed to whir across Paul’s vision, tears pricking at his eyes.

He jolted when he heard a loud clatter above his head, followed by what sounded like Steph crying out. As he dashed to the attic stairs he heard other sounds, scuffling and creaking, seeming to come from Freya’s bedroom.

“Steph?” he shouted. “Is that you?”

His mum came out of the spare room, following him up the stairs. “Paul, you’re back! What’s going on?”

Paul pushed the door to Freya’s room. It wasn’t unusual for Steph to spend time there at the moment, among their daughter’s things, but now she was leaning over Freya’s bed frantically tearing off the sheets. Paul’s stomach pitched when he saw that the bed linen was soaked red. Steph panted as she stripped off two layers, the mattress below also stained crimson.

“What the hell?” Paul’s voice emerged loud. “Are you hurt?” He studied her for cuts or wounds, but could see only dots of red on her sleeve.

“No,” she said, “Urgh, stupid me . . .”

Then he spotted the overturned tumbler on the bedside table. A glass of Freya’s favorite cherry Lucozade had sat there since before she’d gone. Steph must have knocked it off, spilled it over the bed. She mopped with a balled-up sheet as tributaries of Lucozade trickled everywhere. Paul’s mum righted the empty glass—a pointless gesture, really, but Paul wished he’d thought of it, instead of just standing, watching, his arms spread and empty.

“Here, let me, Steph,” he said.

“No, I’ll do it,” she snapped, and dragged the bed away from the wall so she could wipe down the side.