Chris knelt among the storm of papers and files, wondering how crazed he must look. Di snapped her eyes away when she realized he’d seen her, and disappeared out of sight.

23.

STEPH

Zeb Brighton, Steph typed into their family iPad, tapping her foot hard on the kitchen floor. The search found nothing relevant to her neighbor’s son. She wasn’t even certain he’d have the same surname as Emma. Heather hovered at her shoulder, asking questions Steph didn’t have the answers to. No, she didn’t know anything about this boy who’d pressed his cheek against her daughter’s. Or about his mum, apparently: The impressions formed in the ten months they’d shared a building had now been torn up, reshuffled. Her downstairs neighbor, who’d appeared to have more vintage coats than responsibilities, also had a teenage son.

A son who was nowhere to be seen. Who knew Freya more intimately than any of them had realized.

She rubbed her palms together. What to type next? To her shame, and Freya’s endless amazement, Steph was bad with technology. There wasn’t much call for it in her job, which was about high-end service, about maintaining standards and smiles. Strange, really: She had never thought of herself as a “people person,” but apparently she was, or had taught herself to be.

If you’re planning on doing a uni course you’d better get down with the tech, Mum, Freya had teased her a few months ago when Steph had shared that she was considering a part-time degree. Steph had teased in return that she’d follow Freya to her first-choice university and live in the same dorm. Even as she’d said it, she’d felt a deep pang at the prospect of Freya leaving home. Now, though, she’d give anything for the privilege of missing her in that bittersweet, part-of-life way.

“Try adding a location,” Heather urged. “Type ‘Zeb Brighton, Kingston upon Thames.’”

This time, a link to Emma’s vintage clothes shop appeared, but when Steph clicked on it, the page told her it was no longer in business. That explained why Emma was home so much. But there was still nothing about Zeb.

“Try just ‘Zeb, Kingston,’” Heather suggested, “in case he’s got a different surname. It’s an unusual first name, isn’t it?”

Nothing again. Steph raked her memory for anything she could recall about him. All that had really stuck was the deep voice she’d sometimes heard in the ground-floor flat, which had made her assume he was older. She hadn’t been paying attention, consumed by her family life and her own preoccupations, her neighbors just figures on the fringes. Now it felt like these once-minor characters were laying claim to pieces of Freya. Hours spent alone with Chris in a car. Photos taken with Emma’s son.